


Supernatural : Revelation

by SeeNashWrite



Series: Top of the World [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Behind-the-scenes Canon Compliant (with a twist), Family, Gen, Mystery, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 178,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8777983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: The Winchester brothers had accepted their lives as hunters, letting go of the possibility that they'd ever have a sense of normalcy. And, they're right. Thing is, all they've accepted hasn't exactly been the whole story. There's more to their lives than they've ever imagined.





	1. Of Letters (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of many letters is written to begin a story no one’s been telling, though the beats remain the same: two brothers struggle with kept secrets; an angel is challenged; a demon is up to his old tricks; a new, powerful enemy hovers - and a visitor to the bunker just may hold answers to questions no one’s been asking.

* * *

_"...but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but_  
_out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid_  
_for life to go on in the common way."_  
_\- Lewis Carroll: author, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_

* * *

 

**THEN**

LEBANON, KANSAS  
MEN OF LETTERS BUNKER  
FRIDAY EVENING

.

It was twelve minutes to the top of the hour, the closing out of an ordinary afternoon at the bunker. Sam was pretending to work on research when he was really just watching a clock that was slow all morning, then seemed to tick away faster and faster. The way Sam tells it, he somehow knew the rest of the day was likely to be a disaster when Dean couldn't find his keys.

"You're _sure_ ," Dean shouted out to his brother from somewhere down the hallway, his tone not implying a question but more of an accusation.

" _Yes_ ," Sam replied, just as testy. He glanced at the time again. Ten 'til.

Dean should have left fifteen minutes earlier, to go on a brief overnight just a few counties over. There had been a vague news report about something-or-other, and Sam had successfully convinced him it was worth investigating. And, he'd also successfully faked a stomach bug so Dean wouldn't want Sam anywhere near - much less _in_ \- his car, certainly not for two hours.

"Okay, got 'em," Dean announced, striding into the room and picking up his jacket.

Sam let out the tiniest sigh of relief.

Dean snapped his fingers after he'd gotten the jacket on, remembering something. "Think I should I grab more shotgun shells? Do you know what's left in the trunk?"

"Yeah, may want to," Sam agreed.

 _Good_. Dean would leave through the garage, so he could pass the ammo storage on the way. _Perfect_. They would miss each other totally.

"I'm out. Cas is gonna meet me there. I'll call when we get to the motel."

Sam nodded and Dean headed off - which was fortuitous, because at that moment, the text Sam had been waiting for came through:

.

_We're parked & walking to the door now._

_._

They were early.

Sam jumped up from his chair, shutting a book that was opened to a particularly graphic description of how to immolate a bog creature, then was glancing around and nervously running his hands through his hair. Everything looked relatively normal. In days prior, he'd gradually shifted around anything that (a) would scream crazy monster hunters, and (b) that Dean wouldn't notice was moved. The latter was easy; the former, not-so-much.

A knock at the door, and Sam took a deep breath, opened it, then looked at the man and woman before him. They had a few bags and she carried several wrapped dishes in her arms. She was smiling brightly, and Sam instantly couldn't help but smile back, saying, "Hi."

"Hi, yourself."

They were frozen for a moment, til she raised her eyebrows just a bit.

"Come in, come in," Sam said, springing back into action and opening the door wider. "Wow, what did you do? That smells incredible. What can I carry?"

"Oh, here," she replied, handing off the dishes. "It's just little thank-yous." Once in the war room, the man with her set down his bag and began helping her take off her coat. "Thanks," she acknowledged.

Sam placed the dishes on the table, then moved to take their coats but the man smiled, saying if Sam would point him where to ---

"Do I smell pie?"

Sam stiffened. Footfalls approached. He closed his eyes, re-opened them slowly when the sound stopped. His guests looked at him, then each other quizzically, and then at Dean, who stood in the far doorway.

Dean frowned slightly at the sight of more than Sam in his home, and walked very purposefully to the dishes. The woman met him there, as the frown deepened. She smiled at him anyway, though cautiously.

"Yes," she said.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, pie. Well, _pies_ ," she clarified. Lifting up an edge of foil on one of the dishes, she continued as she pointed. "This one's apple, that one's peach, and this one's blueberry."

Dean glanced at the pies briefly, crossed his arms as his eyes went back to her, though he acknowledged what she'd said. "Uh-huh."

She seemed to take that as her cue to continue. "Sam had mentioned pie was one of your favorites, but I didn't know what kind, so I guess I got carried away."

Now Dean looked directly at Sam. "Uh- _huh_ ," he said again, but to Sam his eyes said: _You. Are. So. Gonna. Get. It._

"I also wasn't sure which would keep the best," she was saying, now more than a little fidgety, alternating between talking with her hands and absently grabbing at the sides of her dress. "Because, well, I thought you were out of town. So, you know, here's three. Just in case."

Dean nodded, still looking at Sam. So she looked over at Sam. Sam looked at his shoes.

Dean abruptly turned, cutting off any potential further rambling, asking her, "Who _are_ you?"

Sam's head snapped up, eyeing both of them warily. _Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it._

She extended her hand. "I'm Jane."

He didn't take it right away, and after very quickly glancing at Sam again, Jane kept her mouth shut but left her hand out. Dean slowly shook it. The man walked forward then, extending his own hand.

"And I'm Andrew," he offered.

Dean shook his hand as well, then said, "And I'm not out of town. My trip's officially canceled, because I'd hate to miss this little get-together. What with pies that may not keep well, and all."

"Dean---" Sam began, but his brother cut him off.

"Hey, Sammy, what say you and I head to the kitchen and rustle up some plates so we can dig in," Dean said, super-fake smile and super-fake tone in check.

"Yep," Sam said, following after him, as Dean had not bothered to wait for his response before stalking out of the room, shooting his guests an apologetic look as he went.

"I take it Dean doesn't..." Andrew began saying quietly to Jane.

"Oh, I am betting that's a _no_ ," Jane replied.

.

* * *

.

In the kitchen, Sam found Dean pulling out plates. He watched for a moment, and it didn't go unnoticed. So Dean answered a question that hadn't been asked.

"I wasn't kidding about the pie."

"You never _are_."

"You wanna tell me who those people are? And why it's real clear to me that you're not sick, and you wanted me gone when you brought them here?" Dean asked matter-of-factly, now gathering and laying out forks.

"Because I wanted to meet her in person, look her in the eye first," Sam replied, which seemed to raise Dean's frustration more.

"That - what - you saying _in person_ makes me think - I mean, is this some sort of online hook up thing? If you wanted a some private time, just say the word, I don't wanna know the details."

"I need you to listen---"

"Could you just maybe get a cheap motel, not bring 'em here? Well, the pimp's really well-dressed, so maybe not a cheap motel," Dean continued, still in motion, moving on to grab a knife off a counter near the stove.

"Dean, stop for a sec---"

"But I'll tell ya, I had _no_ idea you were into the southern belle thing. And what the hell kind of escort brings dessert to an appointment?"

"Dean, she's our sister."

Dean froze, clutching the knife, he and Sam staring at each other from across the kitchen.

Sam waited a beat or two, then walked slowly to him, took the knife from his hand, laid it with the forks and plates. Dean was still staring in the general direction of where Sam once stood. Now they spoke in lowered voices.

"She found me awhile ago," Sam continued as gently as he could.

"How long is awhile ago?"

"Summer of Crowley."

Dean took a deep breath but his jaw immediately tensed anyway as Sam went on.

"We've emailed, video chatted, texted, talked a lot... lately, almost every day... and it checks out. All her research that she's sent me, it checks out. She hasn't pushed, not even once. I invited her here."

Dean turned his head to face Sam, staying silent, his face stony and unreadable.

"All the crap you were going through... that _we_ were going through... that we're _always_ going through... I just didn't want to bother you with it until I found out everything I could. She doesn't know how it happened, but for whatever reason, when we were all still little, she was... sent away," Sam explained.

_That_ got a reaction.

Dean uttered a scoffing sound. "Right. Because Mom really would've just given up a kid."

Sam shrugged, replying, "From what I've seen, it was after Mom died."

"And seeing as how she's had the chance since she died to say - Hey boys, nice catching up with you and all, but where's sis? - you don't find that odd?"

"She wasn't exactly... _herself_ , Dean. And even if---"

"And I get you not remembering, being a baby, but I have _zero_ memory of a sister."

"You were practically a baby, too! And, hey, it wouldn't exactly be the first time memories have gotten screwed up or erased, for any of us."

"Still doesn't explain Dad."

Sam pointed in the direction of the war room - of Jane - saying, "You two are practically _twins_ , you were born so close together. Maybe two rugrats and a baby were just one too many for Dad."

Dean began to turn red, his tone getting more and more pinched. "That is - even with what we do for a living - _the_ most insane thing I have ever heard."

"Crazy doesn't make it not true," said Sam, invoking Winchester country's implied national creed.

"For all his admittedly deep piles of garbage? Dad wouldn't have given up on one of his kids. He never gave up on _us_."

Sam's eyebrows shot up at this assertion. He took a beat to swallow down the things he wanted to blurt out about Dean still keeping John on at least a partial pseudo-saint pedestal. And he chose, instead, to remind Dean of John's insatiable drive for saving the world from monsters, how he put it ahead of his own needs. Ahead of his own children.

"I can't help but think about what Dad said for you to do about me, before he died---"

Dean cut him off, looking Sam dead in the eye. "If you have told her _anything--_ -"

"I haven't. Not yet. She knows Dad was a mechanic, but I've told her he went into bounty hunting. And that I'm working on a theology doctorate, which is why we're living here - that the Men of Letters were fanatics-turned-cultists who are my dissertation topic, that our grandfather makes us legacy, and that's how we have access. I've thought this through, Dean."

"What about me? What did you tell her about me?"

"You went into the family business - you're a bounty hunter, too. That's why you were out of town. _Supposed_ to be."

They looked at each other silently for a few moments.

"We don't look anything alike!" Dean finally spat loudly.

"I mean, you two don't look a heck of a lot alike, either."

The brothers looked up to see Jane standing at the kitchen entrance with a timid smile, carrying one of the bags she'd brought.

"Ice cream," she said as explanation, holding up the bag. Dean just stared at her as she came in further, walked to the island, set the bag down beside the plates. To her credit, she stared right back.

When he saw the slight tremble in Jane's fingers as she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, Sam moved away from Dean and opened several drawers til he located the ice cream scooper.

"Okay, then," he said. "Let's eat."

.

* * *

.

The four sat at one of the library tables, their mild chit-chat having devolved into eating quietly. Dean hadn't said a word since the kitchen, and was currently on his third piece of pie, having tried one of each. The others were just pushing stray pieces of crust around on their plates when Sam broke the silence.

"Who wants coffee?" he asked, standing and beginning to stack the dirty dishes.

"Good idea," said Andrew, standing as well. "I'll help." At his extended hand, Jane handed Andrew her plate and smiled up at him as he squeezed her shoulder in encouragement before following Sam out of the room.

After they left, Dean - preparing the last bite of pie and ice cream on his fork - said, "My brother always seems to think keeping things from me is the best plan." He ate the bite, chewed, swallowed, then looked up at Jane. "He's always wrong."

The corners of Jane's mouth ever-so-slightly turned upwards. "I wish I could say I knew what you meant," she said, "but I can't. I'm... well... an only child."

"Yeah," Dean said. " _Well..._ " He put his fork on the empty plate, leaning back in his chair as he wiped his mouth, then tossed the napkin on the table. "I'll say this - I got no clue about the sister angle, but I might just accept it if you keep this up." She grinned fully at this, and Dean watched her, mildly intrigued she didn't immediately start to insist she was who she claimed, trying to change his mind. "Why?" he asked.

"Why, what?" she replied.

"You need a kidney or something?"

"What? No!" Jane exclaimed in a laugh-tinged burst, eyes widening.

Dean's eyes narrowed.

"I don't want your organs," she stated in a serious tone, though there was a sparkle in her eye.

"So why us?"

"Because... that's where everything pointed," she said, and with a hint of a creased brow. "I just followed my research."

And he frowned, too, responding, "My parents never said a _word_ about a sister. There's _nothing_ in my Dad's stuff, or my Mom's. There are people who've known me since _forever_ who _never_ said a word about another kid."

"I don't know how it happened, all I know is---" Jane began, echoing Sam from earlier, but Dean interrupted.

"Well, I know my parents, and this isn't something they'd lie about, like a pet that dies so they tell you some story about magical hamster villages in Sweden."

Jane blinked. "That was... strangely specific."

"So that right there, knowing them, I don't care what---"

"Your father did it before without you knowing; maybe I was a practice run?" she cut him off, and sharper than she'd intended.

Dean's face hardened and Jane sighed, fairly certain she'd just earned Sam a reaming for referencing what she'd long ago inferred was a taboo subject.

"Look, I didn't mean to ambush you, Dean," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "And... you don't know me, you have no reason to trust me."

"Damn straight."

They stared at each other for a few moments, then Jane said, "I get the feeling you're trying to fight with me."

Dean broke eye contact and shrugged, picked at the edge of the table with his thumbnail. "Guess that's in my nature, right? I mean, that's why I wasn't supposed to be here when you came?"

"I don't..." Jane began, then trailed off.

"Was that Sam's idea?" Dean asked bluntly.

"Both of ours, I guess." Jane answered honestly.

Dean raised his eyes back to hers, surprise in them.

"For all our talking, it sometimes feels like I don't know Sam, really," she continued. "I suppose we both wanted the chance to cut out some of that distance. Get acquainted on our own."

Dean was stone-faced, silent.

"Having said that? Doesn't mean it was the right call," she added.

Andrew entered, setting mugs in front of Jane and Dean, respectively. He picked up Dean's empty plate, noting that neither looked in his direction or seemed to know he was even in the room. As he re-entered the kitchen, Sam was still at the sink, washing and rinsing.

"Everything okay out there?" he asked warily.

"No blood, no fouls," Andrew replied with a smile.

Sam nodded, exhaled the most recent breath he'd been holding.

Back at the table, Jane sipped what Andrew had brought and wrinkled her nose, muttering _chamomile_ like it was a dirty word.

Dean sipped as well, then asked, "What research? You said your research, so... how'd you find us?"

"Ah. Well. To answer that, I should tell you what I do. And what Andrew does - and it's not as dramatic as high class call girl and her pimp, I should warn you."

Dean felt his cheeks flush. "Yeah, sorry about that."

"Don't be. I was the one trying to eavesdrop, anyway," Jane said with a chuckle, and she drank some of her tea, cleared her throat before going on. "I'm Andrew's researcher - his field is inherited traits. You know, things passed along through families. I've always had a thing for genealogy, I'm good at digging around and verifying sources, so when I was looking for a change---"

"What'd you do before?"

"Emergency nurse. That's how Andrew and I met - he was finishing up his residency, doing his ER rotation, I helped him navigate the jungle of a supply room one day, and we've been best friends ever since."

"Why'd you want a change? Got sick of all the gore?" Dean probed.

"Nah. Actually, part of what made me good at it was nothing ever made me sick," Jane replied with a rueful grin. "The ones who puke or pass out aren't long for that world."

"You don't exactly seem like you're the iron constitution type. No offense."

That got a big laugh from Jane. "'Iron constitution'," she repeated, then pointed a faux-accusatory finger in his direction. "Now I _know_ you're trying to bait me into a fight."

Dean scrunched his face. "Pfffttt, no. What? No. I'm not baiting."

"Feels baity."

"You feel wrong."

"I feel..." she began thoughtfully, but trailed off, letting her gaze fall away from Dean and to her cup. "Andrew!" she suddenly called out. "This is so plain, what if---"

"No!" Andrew called back, not letting her finish.

Jane sighed. "Killjoy."

A few moments passed as they drank in silence.

"You're hard to fight with," Dean told her, an admittance of sorts, he supposed.

"Well... maybe we can... you know, not. Not fight. Not now. We can... do it later?"

The corner of one side of Dean's mouth turned up reflexively. "Later? You want a rain check on a fight with me?" he asked, genuinely amused.

Jane nodded. "Mmm-hmm. I'm good for it," she said, crossing her heart for emphasis.

"We'll see," Dean responded, standing. He held up his cup, gestured to hers. "Can I top you off?"

"No, thanks. But can you send Andrew my way?" she replied, to which Dean gave her a nod in affirmation.

 

.  
/ / / /  
.

 

As Dean walked into the kitchen, he found Andrew and Sam standing at the island, chatting.

"Hey. She asked if you'd mosey her way," he said to Andrew, walking to the coffee maker.

Andrew nodded, leaving the brothers alone. While Dean refilled his cup, Sam came up beside him, asking, "So what's your take?"

"She hasn't burst into flames or turned into anything," Dean replied. "I keep trying to get her riled up, to see---"

"If anything implodes?" Sam cut in, giving him a _you-are-ridiculous_ look.

Dean rolled his eyes in response, and said, "Well, she's not as easy to put the squeeze on as you are, so there's _that_ glaring absence of a Winchester trait. Anyway, I assume the drinks are made with holy water and the cups---"

"---hand washed in said holy water, not to mention nothing in or on the bunker warded her off," Sam finished. "At the very least, not a demon and I don't think we're dealing with a witch or a skinwalker."

"You don't think there's a chance of another special child?"

"In the same family? It'd be the first time."

"Assuming she's who she says."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Let's assume, then, since she's kinda already in the next room. Just for now."

Dean looked skyward and sighed, but nodded before he continued. "She said she doesn't need a kidney."

"Okay."

"And she's not trying to sell me on it. On being our..."

"Okay," repeated Sam, once he knew Dean wasn't going to finish the sentence.

Dean swirled his coffee for a moment, thinking, and began to walk back to the door. But he paused before leaving, and quietly - so much so that Sam had to mentally repeat it back to himself to make sure he'd heard properly - saying one last thing.

"And she's got mom's laugh."

Andrew passed Dean on his way back in. "She is determined to break her own no-caffeine-at-night rule," he told Sam, walking to the island and retrieving his cup.

Sam smiled, thinking about how Jane's standard speech pattern was crisp and quick and dialed to eleven, regardless of any time of day or night he'd ever spoken with her. "Yeah, I can't picture her needing more energy."

Andrew went to the table, sat, then pulled off his glasses and began wiping them with a napkin. "That always fascinates me," he commented absently.

"What?" asked Sam, joining him at the table.

"I heard what your brother said. I'm mostly stuck in the laboratory end of things, so the data sometimes gets..."

"Boring?"

Andrew grinned. "Never. No, it just doesn't allow me to see the human connections. Your brother sees a piece of his mother." He shrugged. "Maybe that's better than all the test results I can give."

Sam also shrugged, thinking.

Andrew put his glasses back on, picked up his coffee and drank. Then he watched a tiny smile creep to Sam's lips as the younger man shook his head in what appeared to be a touch of disbelief. "What?" asked Andrew.

"Dean said she's hard to argue with. I've watched Dean have long, dramatic arguments with inanimate objects," Sam told him.

Andrew set down his cup, saying, "Interesting. Nanny used to say, 'The mouth on that girl could drive saints to sinning!' So, I guess we should brace ourselves for what's bound to be an apocalyptic confrontation at some point."

Sam chuckled; apocalypses, he could handle.

"Mind if I ask? If you've noticed anything similar to others in your family?"

"My dad," Sam answered, after a bit of consideration. "When she was telling me about the day that she was sure about it. Just... the look. He would get that look on his face when he'd found what he was tracking, like... tired and maybe nervous, but relieved."

"Tracking?"

Sam realized his slip. "Sorry, yeah. _Who_ he was tracking. He was a bounty hunter, too. Like Dean."

Andrew nodded, seeming to accept the answer. "Jane had mentioned that. Well, I guess we all have that in common."

"What?"

"Hunting for answers."

"But I can't speak to if she's like our mom, not really," Sam lied. Because he could. And happened to agree with his brother.

Andrew observed as Sam mulled something over, opening and closing his mouth once or twice, then stopping.

"I'm going to go spy on them," Sam announced.

Andrew raised his cup in a toast. "Godspeed," he said, pulling out his phone and settling in to read as Sam exited the kitchen.

 

.  
/ / / /  
.

 

It was more than just Jane's laugh.

Dean had studied her ever since Sam revealed who she was... who she was _supposed_ to be.

She was tall, like them, and Dean thought that in heels she'd come close to being eye-to-eye with him. Same thick, lanky brown hair as Sam. And he continued to study her now, as she spoke, how even mid-sentence her mouth would grow into a wide smile. And before he could catch himself, his immediate thought was Mary's own grin.

The same one Sam had. How seldom his brother showed it. _Damn it_.

Jane's smile had faded, a more quizzical look crossing her face; Dean realized he must've been staring.

"I haven't decided what I think of you yet," he said carefully, picking up his cup and taking a sip before adding on, "I don't mean the sister part."

"I understand," Jane replied quietly, rotating her own cup slowly as it rested between her hands. The handle brushed against her bracelet and the charms made a tinkling sound.

"My mom... Mom wore a charm bracelet," Dean said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. What are they, just places you've been?" he asked, as he'd thought he'd spotted an Eiffel Tower and a Big Ben amongst the sea of silver.

"No, not yet," she told him. "Those are from Andrew, from his trips. Mostly just things I like. What was on your mother's? Do you remember?"

Dean paused, wondering what to say.

"It's okay, you probably don't," Jane said when Dean didn't answer right away.

"No, I do, they were just... well, her parents - her father - kind've a religious nut, so they were just symbols. You know, crosses and whatever. Nothing that she was really into. I only saw her wear it a few times."

"I thought it was your other grandfather who... you know," Jane replied, raising a finger and swirling it at their surroundings.

"Oh it was. The nutty's on both sides. Lucky us."

"Do you remember anything about them? The grandparents, I mean?"

"Nope. All gone before I arrived on the scene." Dean paused and his eyes narrowed. "Are you testing me or something? I figured you'd have known they're all dead."

"You're baiting," she replied simply, beginning to lift her cup.

Dean opened his mouth to counter when a telltale sound came from his pocket.

"You're _buzzing,_ " she pointed out, now taking a sip.

"Yeah," said Dean, pulling out his phone and looking at the screen. He muttered unintelligibly under his breath when he saw Castiel's number. Then he looked at Jane, holding up the phone and standing to leave the room. "Be right back."

"I'll be here," she replied as he walked out and down the hallway.

 

.  
/ / / /  
.

 

In his bedroom, Dean shut the door as he answered the phone. "Cas, hey."

"I thought we were meeting to check out the---"

"Yeah, forget that, false alarm," Dean interrupted. "Snipe hunt, courtesy of Sam."

"What? Why?" Castiel asked, clear confusion - and perhaps concern - in his voice.

"I'll tell you, but listen - I do need you to check something out. Check _someone_ out."

"Of course. But---"

"Name is Andrew. He's a doctor but does research, too. Genetic stuff."

"That's not a lot to go on."

Dean opened the door and peeked out; he could hear Sam's voice, then Jane's. "He may have a grant or a teaching position or something. It'll be a local hospital, they must - I mean, I _guess_ they live nearby. But I don't think real close to here. May as well start out there, then to other nearby counties."

"What's this about, Dean?"

"Looks to be about our age. He's Sam's height, blonde hair, glasses," Dean continued, ignoring Castiel's question. "And has a research assistant named Jane."

Castiel was silent for a moment, then asked, "And do I need to look into her, as well?"

"No," Dean said immediately. "No, I'll take care of that."

"But this is about the both of them?"

"Maybe. Just--- just let me know what you find," Dean said, and hung up the phone, quietly making his way back to the library.

 

.  
/ / / /  
.

 

"I saw you," Jane said aloud, waiting til after she heard a door shut down the hallway.

Sam emerged from his eavesdropping post and came to sit beside Jane. "Hey, you doing okay?" he asked.

"Yep. Even better now," she replied with a grin, giving him a lean-and-nudge with her elbow. 

He smiled in return, and said, "I just... want to make sure he's not being tough on you."

"A little. But I understand. How come you're over there spying? Why don't you come sit with us?"

"I didn't want to ditch Andrew---"

"Oh! Psshh! The second you left the room, he'd pulled out his phone, probably already going over some study or lab results and is in his own private heaven," Jane replied. "He knew to bring busy work, the man can't go five seconds without some sort of data-related stimulation, it's tragic."

Sam laughed, but then his expression grew serious. "Speaking of - did you bring testing stuff? Needles, tubes, whatever?"

"No! I thought we'd save the bloodletting til maybe not our _first_ get-together."

"Well, I meant it when I said I was happy to give a blood sample. Dean will be, too."

Jane gave him a _look_. "Sam. He's _tolerating_ me. Dean doesn't trust me as far as he can throw me. Hell, he might not trust _you_ after tonight."

Sam remained confident. "He'll do it. Testing's the only way for him to know for sure."

Jane studied Sam's hope-filled face for a moment, thinking. "If I were him," she finally said, "I think I'd want a third party to run a test on all three of us, too. You know, not Andrew's lab - an independent second opinion."

"Science isn't about opinion, it's about facts, and I'm quoting you, here," replied Sam, his grin making a brief return. "Besides, Andrew said something earlier, and he's right. We could run all the tests in the world, but..." He trailed off, his forehead creasing as he glanced away, seeming to consider his next words carefully before looking back to her. "I believe. I just... _know_."

Jane sat up straighter, and started to turn fully towards him, but paused; Sam, however, was already leaning in and met her more than halfway, hugging her tightly.

Dean came striding in, returning to his seat at the table. "Shoulda tested before you came over, you may've stumbled into the wrong family," he said, but his tone had shifted from his earlier seriousness to something more lighthearted.

"Uh-oh," Jane replied, her tone equally light as she pulled away from Sam and quickly swiped a tear or two away. "You're right. Who are you people, _really?_ "

"Demon-possessed serial killers," Dean answered nonchalantly as he sat, taking a tiny bit of internal pleasure as he watched Sam's expression go from relaxed to nauseous.

"Darn it," Jane said with a finger snap, and sighed. "I was hoping for vampire mafiosi."

"Nope. Honestly, we're just simple zombie tax-evaders," said Dean. "Sorry, kid."

"You undead are becoming _so_ unoriginal," she said, _tsk-_ ing and shaking her head.

"He's kidding," Sam - unnecessarily - chimed in. Jane and Dean both turned their heads, gave him virtually the same _look_ , so much so that he thought, for him at least, any more testing was just a formality at this point. And it made him smile. A wide, real, genuine smile. "I'm gonna go check on Andrew," he told them.

After he left, Jane looked at the phone still in Dean's hand, asking, "Everything okay?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Guy that sometimes helps me with... anyway, I forgot to let him know he was on his own tonight," he answered, turning the phone face down as he set it on the table.

"I truly am sorry that we---"

Dean held up a hand. "I'm not. Don't worry about it."

Jane nodded in acceptance, then said, "So tell me a story."

Dean's eyebrows raised. "About...?"

"Your job. I've never met a bounty hunter. I mean, I know you probably can't tell me details, but you've gotta have some great war stories, like crazy places you've found people hiding."

"You first."

"Okay... ER stories... hmmmm. Well, the weirdest was this guy who came in with this huge coat on in the summer, and walking real funny, not _ha-ha_ funny, more like---"

"If you're so convinced you're our sister, why do you need to run bloodwork?"

Jane was slightly startled; that tone from before, it was back. He kept catching her off-guard, something to which she was not accustomed based on her experience thus far with Sam. For every way he was measured and considerate, Dean was... well, Dean was...

"You are blunt and sharp edges, all at the same time," she told him, something akin to wonder in her voice. "How do you do that? _Why_ do you do that? I mean, I assume because it works on people, or you wouldn't keep doing it, I guess I just can't quite figure why you're trying to work over _me_."

Now it was _Dean_ who was caught off-guard, Jane's unexpected comeback unfurling in one long, quick, accented breath.

"Anyway," she continued, "I have proof. All kidding aside, as much as I'd grown to like Sam, until I had proof, he was still a stranger. You think I'd walk into a stranger's home---" Jane glanced up and around briefly "---a _strange_ stranger's home, without some? Iron constitution, yes; stupid, no."

"So why bring Thor with you?" asked Dean, tilting his head towards the kitchen, and Andrew.

"Imagine for a second that you had, say, a sister. How you'd feel about her driving to another town, alone, to meet someone in person for the first time, _alone_ , in what was described as basically a fort under an abandoned power plant in the middle of a field. That's how it feels for him. He'd have sat in the car if he had to."

Dean nodded. "Fair enough. So, how?"

"How? Um, just a toothbrush, really. I told Sam when he was ready to change toothbrushes, if he was also ready to do a DNA test, send it to us. After about a month or so, he did. Andrew took it to the lab, and abracadabra. Instant sister."

"I guess I meant more... how you found Sam. How you didn't find me." Dean paused there, looking more at his cup than at her. "I wanna hear _that_ story."

Jane took a deep breath, but then just exhaled it all at once. "Pfffhew. That's... ah, how much of that stuff you got left, this may take awhile."

"Plenty."

"I'm not even sure _Sam_ knows every detail of this, it didn't exactly happen... I didn't exactly lay it all out---"

"So lay it all out," Dean interjected, now almost staring her down. "You've got my attention." And seemingly as proof, he picked his phone back up, turned it off, then returned it to his pocket.

Jane slowly smiled. "Okay. Well, the only blood relative I thought I even _might_ have was a woman I don't remember." She reached down into the top of her dress with one hand, the other running behind her neck and under her hair, pulling a long, thin chain up and over her head.

A locket; Dean hadn't been able to see it before.

Jane slid the rose-gold oval across the table to Dean as she continued. "Nanny - the woman whose home I grew up in - gave that to me before I moved away."

"So not 'nanny', like as in, grandmother?"

Jane shook her head. "I thought that for awhile, but no. When she gave it to me, she said she'd made a promise that when I was old enough to go off and have adventures of my own, to make sure I took that with me."

Dean held it in one palm and ran his finger over it. It was well-worn, mildly scratched here and there. There had once been some sort of swirly design on it, maybe flowers, but they had long since begun a retreat into the surface.

"Open it," Jane told him, and he did.

Dean's eyes roamed over the two photographs that had been trimmed to fit, one on either side. The locket was on the large side, in his estimation, about the size of the average men's watch face, but the pictures were still small. One was black and white, one color, both faded. They were children, not quite toddlers, the girl with the pale blonde hair and pink-collared blouse, and the boy with a cowlick and a sprinkling of freckles.

"There's a picture of me about this age," he said slowly, staring down at the boy. "We could be twins."

"Written on the back, each has a year, and a name - John and Mary."

Dean looked up at her, his expression a mix of confusion and curiosity, topped with a touch of awe, saying, "I've never seen these before."

"Neither had Nanny. She'd never opened it. And she never knew who my real parents were, but she believed - we  _both_ believed - that maybe those pictures were of them. So, all I had to go on were three names---"

"Three?" When Jane held up a finger, he muttered, "Sorry."

"As I am sure you realize, 'John' and 'Mary' didn't give me much to go on, especially since they went and named me..." She trailed off, pointing the finger back at herself and raising her eyebrows at him.

"Jane," Dean finished with a mild chuckle. "Yeah, I see what you mean. Got it."

"But the year on each of the pictures at least gave me an age range. And I knew my birthday, of course, though I'd never seen a birth certificate, so I didn't know where I was born. Didn't know my real last name. Nothing."

"What about through social security?"

"Issued when Nanny formally adopted me. I was around five or so."

"She told you that?"

Jane shook her head. "It was... an unusual situation. Which is a story for another time."

Dean watched as she shifted in her chair, un-crossing and re-crossing her legs, then pausing to take a sip of her tea; the topic was obviously a sore spot.

"But she'd said she promised someone she'd give that to me," Jane continued, "and my gut was they knew each other pretty darn well."

"Well enough to trust her with a kid?"

"Right. Or, at least knew about my real parents. And that's the thing about small towns: everybody knows everybody else. Nanny lived in the same one her whole life. _Somebody_ knew this person, even if they didn't realize it. It took awhile, but I got a handful of the little old church ladies to start talking. They'd been in that town since God was a boy, and they'd known Nanny just as long."

Jane took another sip of tea, and she seemed to be lost in thought for a second, a tiny, close-lipped smile briefly appearing as she stared down into the cup.

"It was strange to hear them talk about what Nanny was like as a teenager. She was so... _different_. Not just tough, she was..." Jane trailed off, shook her head a few times, as if she was waking herself up. She looked back up at Dean. "She told me once that life was going to actively try and beat me down---"

"Encouraging," Dean commented dryly.

"---that I'd develop armor and weapons to fight back. But they'd be heavy to carry, and I needed to work every single day to make myself strong. Always got the feeling she wished someone had told her that."

"So, the friend..." Dean prodded, wanting her to stay on track.

"So, the friend - she was born Emeline Boyd, she died E.W. Ripley. And in between, for a time, she was Millie Winchester."

Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Millie," he repeated.

"Now - this is where it gets weird."

"Oh, now? _Now_ it gets weird," Dean said flippantly, but he had a twinkle in his eye, and Jane was encouraged.

"Well, I don't know your weird meter, but this next part ranked pretty high on mine." She paused for a moment, and Dean saw her mood shift, growing more serious. "I had no reason, no evidence, but I just knew I had a brother. At _least_ a brother. I don't remember anything from my childhood but Nanny's home, Nanny's family, Nanny's grandkids, but I had these recurring dreams. There was this little boy and I couldn't quite see him clearly, but he was always close, always..."

Jane's gaze had drifted away from Dean's, like she was looking for her dream then and there. She gestured with her hand, fanning it to her right, indicating an area somewhere behind herself. She abruptly met his eye again as she went on.

"He was always barely out of my line of sight, just out of my reach. Once I dreamt he was looking out at me from behind a tree, like he was hiding from me, maybe? In others, he'd be sitting beside me. Once I was holding a doll in my lap. But I couldn't... he was _right next to me_ and I couldn't get to him, get a real good look at him---" she pointed at the locket "---'til those pictures. And I recognized that boy from my dreams. And I let myself wonder if maybe I wasn't the only one. If maybe I wasn't hunting for ghosts. Maybe I wasn't alone... just... lost."

Dean waited while Jane seemed to consider what to say next - and he'd have been lying to himself if he'd said what finally came out of her mouth didn't trigger something deep inside.

"Do you remember awhile back, when Sam's shoulder was hurt?"

Dean felt his jaw tense involuntarily. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "What about it?"

"Andrew's fellowship was ending at his hospital, and he was looking at other hospitals, at attending positions in trauma centers."

"What does that have to do with---"

This time, Jane didn't bother with a cute expression or placation; the part of the story that came next was going to be tough for Dean to hear, she already knew, and so she plowed ahead. "And at one of them, the chief resident for trauma surgery was showing him around when he got a STAT call to the emergency department. A patient had just been brought down from the helipad with extensive blood loss due to traumatic upper body injury involving the subclavian artery."

Inferring she was talking about Sam somewhere in the medical-speak, Dean gave her a narrow-eyed, almost dirty look.

So, she spoke plainly. "Whatever happened, it was bad, Dean. They didn't know if he would live and if he did, if he'd keep the arm," Jane explained.

"I didn't... he never told me that."

"The surgeon had brought Andrew along, so he could see their team in action, all hands on deck. You know, the real _iron constitution_ stuff."

"Stop. Just stop a minute," Dean interjected, holding up both hands. "So you're saying Andrew saw a random patient and took a wild guess it was your long-lost family member?"

Jane's only response was raised eyebrows; and to this, his was:

"You're not telling me everything."

 .

* * *

.

JULY 2014  
STRATTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL  
REGIONAL LEVEL I TRAUMA CENTER

.

In the ER's trauma bay, while the staff was busily attending to the pale, still body on the stretcher, Andrew was quietly observing from the corner. The flight medics handed their papers to him, for the chart, seeing as how everyone else was busy. And as they left, Andrew followed them into the hallway.

"So what the hell you think went on with this guy?" he asked conversationally, leaning against the wall next to their stretcher. They were cleaning it off, re-packing their gear, preparing for their next trip, but seemed eager to tell someone about their experience.

"It was the craziest thing, middle of nowhere," the first medic said.

"Out near Route 35, next county over. They'd just cleared out a lot of those woods, good thing, too, or we wouldn't have been able to land," chimed in the other.

"The EMT crew said they'd barely found him, at the edge of this service road - you know, not paved, right up against the woods," the first continued. "Dispatch could barely understand the guy who called it in, it's a miracle they got there in time."

"The guy who called it in?" Andrew repeated.

"Yup. Dispatch told them the caller sounded really out of it, couldn't tell if maybe he was hurt, too," the medic replied. "But as soon as they saw your guy in there? Radioed the closest trauma center because they saw how bad it was, knew the county hospital wouldn't do any good, they'd have to transfer him here, anyway."

"But where had he and the other guy _come_ from?"

"There wasn't a car or ATV, not that I could see, don't know how the hell they got out there. The EMTs assumed it was some sort of hunting accident in the woods, but that land's not where you'd hunt. No real game. It's just been acres and acres of woods since before I was born, some company just bought it last year. Strip mall, I think the news said."

Andrew looked toward the trauma bay, where they'd just finished placing a chest tube. The radiology tech had already come and gone with the portable x-ray. He then looked back to the medics, saying, "No buckshot. No bullets."

"We didn't think so, either," said the second medic. "It looked... on God, it looked like something crushed that arm and then damn near took it off." She glanced behind Andrew, noted the chest tube as well, then said, "Yeah, I'm not surprised. His breath sounds on that side were practically nothing, and I betcha there's at least 4 fractured ribs. It'd be nice to know what happened... but it's not like his friend would've been any help."

"Mmm-hmm, that was another crazy part," agreed the first medic. "We never saw him, they said he'd up and vanished right before we put down."

"Really? The one who called?"

"They told us the caller was there - with your guy, on the side of the road, said he seemed sleep-deprived or - in their words - _cracked out on something_. Because, you know, couldn't have been shock at seeing... _whatever_ did that." He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Did the caller say anything else to them?" asked Andrew.

"What was that trainee gal telling you when we were loading up?" he asked his partner.

"I think it's where maybe the hunting theory came from," replied the second medic. Looking to Andrew, she explained, "The caller was just rambling, stumbling around. So they told their ride-a-long to go check him out. You know, take his pulse, check his pupils."

"Uh-huh."

"And she asked him what his friend's name was, how they got there, no luck, so she got basic - _Where's home?_ No reaction, so she starts naming states, no lie. And when she hit on _Kansas_ , said it was like a light went on and he starts babbling about hunting, Winchesters, my fault, just on and _on_. The cops were out there looking for a rifle when we left." She shrugged, went back to winding up monitor cords.

"Waste of time?" Andrew asked.

"Maybe not. Good they're looking, it could _be_  drug-related, some deal happening in a secluded spot that went bad. Wouldn't be the first sketchy thing to happen with those woods," the first medic pointed out.

"Huh," Andrew said in response, thinking, looking once more back into the trauma bay. They were moving the patient, having gotten his rate and rhythm stable enough to brave the transport to surgery. "Thanks," he said distractedly to the flight medics, who'd gone on to chit-chatting about the woods, and began to follow behind the stretcher as it raced to the elevator.

His host followed after at a little jog, stripping off his gloves and tossing them into a trash can, then putting his lab coat back on as he went, saying, "Hey man, you want to scrub in with us? You're welcome to, I mean, just to observe. I'll introduce you to vascular and thoracic, they're meeting us in the OR."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I'll take you up on that," Andrew replied.

"You don't have to stay the whole time. I know you're flying out tonight, and this is definitely going to be a long one."

Andrew smiled. "Not a problem. Just need to make a phone call."

He initially got Jane's voice mail when he'd called before changing into surgical scrubs, but on the second try, just before he was about to scrub in, she picked up.

"Hey, sorry, I was just finishing up with Dr. G. He says hello," Jane answered breathlessly, walking briskly from a crosswalk and into a parking deck. "What's up, how'd the interview go?"

"Janey," Andrew began, and she stopped in her tracks upon hearing his tone.

"What is it? Are you okay?"

"There's a patient here..." Andrew began, then reversed course on what he was going to say. "I'm going to fly back tomorrow instead of tonight, they're letting me observe an interesting case. Probably going to be awhile in surgery."

"Ooof. I know that voice - it may be interesting, but it's also pretty bad," Jane replied, getting her keys from her bag and resuming her walk. "Are they young?"

"Yeah," Andrew answered. He was watching from the scrub room through the window as several surgeons were donning the last of their protective gear and the anesthetist assumed their post near the head of the stretcher. "He's younger than us, at least."

"Seems like most are, these days. Weird injury?"

"Definitely of the unknown variety, he - hang on a sec." A nurse's aide he recognized from the ER had just cracked the door and leaned her head into the scrub room. He raised his eyebrows at her, asking silently what she needed.

"Could you let someone know I put the bag with John Doe's belongings behind the nurse's station out here? Nobody's around, and I have to get back," she said.

"My pleasure," he responded with a bright smile, and she blushed as she closed the door.

"I know that voice, too. Stop breaking out-of-town hearts, it's bad form," Jane teased.

"So it's okay to pick me up tomorrow?"

"I think my boss will understand."

"Aaaand... it's okay if you call and take care of the flight change for me?"

"Yeeeees."

"Maybe the hotel, to let them know---"

"I'm on it," Jane said with a laugh. Switching to a concerned tone, she added, "I hope he'll be okay. Did I hear he's a John Doe?"

"It is indeed a mystery," Andrew replied, glancing one more time through the window, getting his host's attention with a wave. He pointed to the phone, then held up a finger to the resident, who nodded in understanding, and Andrew exited the scrub room, listening to Jane as he walked behind the nurse's station in the recovery area just off the nearby set of OR suites.

"Well, then I also hope they solve it soon. He's only got you looking out for him for a little while," Jane was saying. "Hope he's got some family for them to find."

Pressing his phone between his head and his shoulder, Andrew crouched and picked up a clear bag containing bloodied clothing. Standing again, he plopped it down on the counter top and removed a piece of paper tucked inside. The belongings inventory listed no car keys, no wallet, no I.D. But there, at the very bottom:

_\- - Cell phone (black, case cracked, screen shattered)  
_

"I've got a good feeling about it," Andrew told her, and they exchanged goodbyes.

And then, Andrew waited.

He waited through the surgery, then until post-op was complete. Watched as they adjusted and readjusted the ventilator's settings, watched the failure to maintain more than a kitten's blood pressure. Observed the administration of pressors and bag after bag of packed red cells.

_Then_ Andrew sat in the ICU waiting room into the night. He waited through the nursing staff shift change, and beyond the physicians' morning rounds. He passed off the belongings bag to a nurse, only the item list was now folded and carefully inserted into the cut-up flannel shirt's bloodied pocket. And though he'd done what he'd promised, the bag was light one black, cracked-case, shattered-screen cell phone.

Andrew had stared at the shatter pattern for quite awhile during his tenure in the waiting room, and passerby would occasionally notice but say nothing. It would not power up, he'd already tried, but did have enough juice to flash the dead battery indicator. So, at least some reason to believe it could still work. It wasn't until an elderly man moved to a seat near him around nine the next morning that Andrew's focus was cheerfully interrupted.

"What's up, doc?" the man asked, and Andrew looked up.

"Beg your pardon, sir?" he asked politely, still a little lost in thought. Then, glancing down, he saw that though he wore slacks, tie, and button-down, he'd put his lab coat back on out of habit. "Ah. I'm afraid I'm not here for work."

"Oh I know, I know, I could tell," the man replied. "Got someone you're worried about in there, do ya? They're prickly about visiting times." He pointed to the locked doors of the public entrance to the ICU.

Andrew smiled. "That, they are. But he's not awake yet. So... here I am."

"We - that is, the wife and I - we saw you here last night. And you were staring at that phone just like now. Only you're not doing anything on it. Not talking or app'ing or trending, or whatever all nonsense can be done."

"No, sir," Andrew responded, not sure where this was heading.

"Well, we - the wife and I - we wondered if maybe it was the battery, and it looks like our grandson's phone..." Now the man shifted in his seat, pulling something from his pocket and handing it over. "You're welcome to use this, if it fits."

Andrew took it - a charger - and unwound the cord, studying the end, and smiled again. "Yes. I think it will fit."

"Good. That's real good," the man replied, then slowly pushed himself up from the chair. Andrew moved to help, but was waved off. As he shuffled back across the waiting room toward a gray-haired woman reading a book, Andrew spoke.

"I'll return it to you shortly."

Without turning around, the man responded. "Keep it."

And though Andrew sadly suspected he knew the answer, he asked, "Your grandson won't need it?"

The man paused in his shuffling, glancing briefly over his shoulder. "No, doc. No, I don't believe he will." And then he continued on, sitting down next to the woman and taking her hand in one of his own. She wordlessly shifted the book closer to him, and they sat in silence, reading together.

After taking the somber scene in for a moment, Andrew plugged the charger into an outlet under a neighboring end table, then into the phone. At the same time, the nurse to whom he'd given the belongings bag exited the doors, walked to another group of people near him, and quietly told them the doctors wanted a word. She escorted them as far as the doors, then turned back, coming to a stop in front of him.

"The night nurse I took over for said you're here about the John Doe? With the shoulder?" she asked.

"Hi. Yes. How is he?" asked Andrew.

"Not being family and - even though you're a doctor - not _his_ doctor, I can't tell you anything really, you understand, right?" she said, answering his question with one of her own, but all in a very leading tone.

"Right."

"Like, I couldn't possibly tell you that even though I heard this might have been a drug-related incident, that his toxicology panel was completely clear. I mean, newborn _baby_ clear."

"Of course."

"And that he's already off of transfusions because he has better blood counts than I bet you or I do right now."

"Certainly."

"But I _really_ couldn't tell you that even though I've been doing this for probably longer than you've been alive, I've never had a chest tube start drying up so soon, or for bruising to begin dissipating so quickly, or for a patient this critical to start coming off everything right after all the mess that boy's gone through."

"Come off..."

She stared down at him, hands on hips. "The sedation, intubation, the vent - he started fighting that vent around midnight, even _through_ sedation, night shift didn't hardly know what to do. They're gonna wean him off later today, if his challenges go well. Respiratory said the first one already _did_. I have _never_ seen a patient bounce back this fast, and that's the truth." She glanced around, cleared her throat, and lowered her voice. "Now, I can't tell you all that, but why don't _you_ tell _me_ why you're still hanging around here. Do you know him or something?"

"No, no, I... I, ah, I don't know him," Andrew replied. He paused, his eyes leaving hers for a split second, and when he looked back up at her, he hoped he was convincingly displaying what Jane called _those damn puppy eyes_.

The nurse's expression softened, and she sat down.

.

* * *

.

"And then?" asked Dean.

"Andrew proceeded to lie his ass off. He told her that Sam reminded him of his best friend who'd died when they were kids, it's why he became a doctor, blah blah blah. She ended up giving him her phone number, so he could call and check in," Jane replied.

Dean hoped his face hadn't given anything away during the early part of the story, because amongst the myriad things running through his mind, all he kept coming back to was:

_Castiel_

He tuned back in - Jane was still talking, now about the last time Andrew had spoken to the ICU nurse.

"...thought the nerve damage was so severe that he'd _maybe_  get a small percentage of use back, and then one day when another nurse went to get him ready to be transferred to a lower-acuity floor? He was gone-baby-gone."

Dean tried and failed to hide a grin. "Skipped out, did he?"

Jane rolled her eyes. " _That's_ your take-away? From that whole story?"

Dean got visibly agitated. "No, I guess my take-away really has to do with Andrew stealing Sam's phone and then, I assume, figuring out how to unlock it? All on a hunch that _maybe_ this was his friend's brother? Oh, but wait, there's no reason to think his friend even _had_ a brother?"

"Trust me when I say: Andrew does not have hunches. Andrew does not guess. Andrew deals in facts and data and stark reality, and can be completely, flames-on-the-side-of-my-face frustrating because of this, so when he said something told him this guy was related to me? I thought he'd gone the way of Tesla and I'd find my in-house genius holed up talking to the pigeons."

"But you must've believed him."

"I _wanted_ to believe." She shrugged. "Sue me."

Dean sighed, shifting and leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Fine. So, the phone."

"So, the phone," Jane repeated, as this was rapidly turning into a routine of sorts. "Don't know. Andrew hired someone." At this, she immediately found herself on the receiving end of a fierce frown.

"That's... that's not good," Dean stated.

"Well, he---"

"Sam sometimes helps me with my... bounty hunting cases, and it's... we use burner phones, and fake names when we're in the field, because you never know when one of these... one of these nutbags could have family or friends that wanna to track us down, and... that he took his real phone is so damn..." Dean ran a hand through his hair, but brought a fist down on the table. "He _knows_ better than that!"

Jane was silent for a moment, then spoke softly. "I expect he was thinking less like a hunter, and more like a brother."

Dean met her gaze, but didn't respond.

"I don't know why he was in those woods. I don't know any details, not about any of it. I didn't ask Sam for them, I'm not gonna ask you for them. All he ever said was that you two had a falling out that summer, you'd had a pretty good scare on the job that could've killed you, and it... changed you. That you needed time on your own. But you were gone so long, it scared him." She paused, because she couldn't tell by Dean's expression if he wanted to throttle her or burst into tears. "There's nothing wrong with that, Dean. It's one of many perfectly normal reactions to a life-changing trauma."

"If he'd... if more than the arm had happened to him because of... because of my _perfectly normal reaction_..."

"If he'd died?" Jane guessed.

Dean nodded.

"But he didn't."

"He _could've_."

"He _didn't_."

They'd sat staring at each other for easily a full minute when Sam came into the room, having stationed himself at the doorway leading from the war room to the kitchen when he'd heard the echoing thud of Dean's fist hitting the table. He'd only been able to make out part of what Dean said, but had clearly heard Jane mention someone dying, and his gut said that someone was _him_. Then it had gotten quiet -  _too_ quiet.

"Hey, you guys need any... ooookay." Upon seeing their expressions - and their lack of reaction to his entrance - he did a smooth heel-turn back into the kitchen.

 

.  
/ / / /  
.

 

"I think she's telling him about how she found me," Sam told Andrew, who let out a low whistle.

"Brave lady," he replied. "I thought she'd leave that for you to tackle. Did you ever tell Dean the extent of your injury?"

Sam shook his head, sat back down and picked up his cup as he answered. "No. He beats himself up over... well, everything. And hell, I _still_ don't know what all happened with him that summer."

"Turnabout's fair play, and all that?"

Sam considered this, taking a sip of coffee before responding. "Maybe. I don't know. It just never seemed... it's just in the past."

Andrew nodded, not agreeing or disagreeing, merely acknowledging.

Sam liked Andrew. On one occasion when he'd sat down with his laptop and fired up a chat at what had become his and Jane's typical time - assuming he wasn't dealing with any otherworldly affairs - it had taken longer than usual for an answer. When he'd eventually gotten one, Sam found Andrew on the other side of the screen. Jane had the flu, he'd explained, and then apologized for not texting Sam that she couldn't make it. But the two men had proceeded to have an almost two-hour long conversation, not about long-lost siblings or DNA tests... nor, refreshingly for Sam, about monsters and demons and death and angels. They'd talked about pop culture and sports and a million other light, mindless things, and it was the most fun Sam had experienced in a long, long while. They didn't communicate often, but when they did, it was emails and texts of the same nature, things people would share with each other on a given day - the occasional funny thing Jane may've said, links to trending articles, movie reviews, interesting - or utterly stupid - videos. Blissfully _normal_ things.

"You know, speaking of the past, I never did apologize to you," Andrew said, returning Sam from his memory.

"Why? For what?"

"For stealing your phone, and having Jane lie."

"Okay, first off, I don't care about the phone. I get it, you were playing detective. It's what I would've done. And second of all, I doubt you could 'have' Jane do anything."

"Eh, well... I encouraged it."

"She's apologized for that, even though she didn't need to, either."

Andrew chuckled, held out his cup. "All right. Still friends?"

"Friends, sure. But I may be homeless after this, if you're in the market for a brother," Sam replied, clinking his cup to Andrew's.

"Dean will come around. Have faith in him."

 

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

 

Back in the library, Jane was reassuring Dean that the phone was merely unlocked, in Andrew's presence, and handed over - then, from him to Jane. No one had seen the content except for her, and even so, it wasn't anything specific.

"So what the hell good was it?" asked Dean.

"I tell ya, his browsing history was entertaining. It didn't make sense til I found out about his thesis," Jane replied. "I thought, hey - should I ever need to know how to track and/or summon a high-ranking knight of hell, whatever _that_ is, I know just what search terms to use!"

She was smiling, and so Dean forced a small laugh; then her smile began to fade.

"I _did_ lie to him, though. It makes me a kinda sad, that the first things I said to him were a lie."

"What did you say?" Dean asked, his tone softer than she'd have expected.

"His email was... was synced up, you know? So I basically sent him an email from himself, saying that I was a nurse, and I had his phone. That this wasn't about him leaving the hospital early or about a bill or something, just that I had the phone, offered to return it, but mostly I wanted to check on his recovery. Make sure he got his prescriptions and had the supplies he needed."

"That's not a lie - you _are_ a nurse and you _did_ have his phone," Dean pointed out, and a tiny grin lit on her lips.

"Mmm-hmm. Good to know how you split hairs, I'm tucking that information away."

"You do that. So, what then?"

"Well... then, nothing. A couple days later, the line was disconnected. I did _not_ take the hint, because I'm a real mule ----"

"I'll tuck  _that_ away."

"--- I kept emailing, and eventually he wrote back. I gave him my number. One day, out of the blue, he used it."

"And?"

"I called in antibiotics and pain killer prescriptions. He'd text when he needed refills. Then we weren't just texting - he'd started calling. Sometimes he would call with questions, and we eventually started chatting about other things." Jane paused and her brow creased slightly. "It took awhile for him to... to _really_ talk, you know? And he always seemed... lonely."

Dean felt himself becoming inexplicably irritated to hear that Sam was able to talk with a perfect stranger so easily. "So you didn't tell him who you were? Who you _thought_ you were? He was just chit-chatting about the weather with a rando chick?"

Jane sighed. "I'm sorry?" she volunteered.

 

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

 

At the same time in the kitchen, a similar conversation was taking place.

"Anyway, I'm the one who should be apologizing," Sam was saying to Andrew. "Did she tell you about what happened when she initially told me?"

Andrew's eyebrows raised as he said, "Oh, I was _there_."

Sam grimaced. He had no idea what his face had looked like through her screen when she'd finally managed to say that she thought she may be related to him, but he knew it _definitely_ twisted up into something awful when she'd said "sister", because he vividly recalled the way she burst into tears right before he'd slammed his laptop shut. Knowing her now, thinking of all the times she'd patiently listened to him vent about vagueness that was hiding the truth of his life's frustrations... how she'd told him something so difficult and he just kept on lying... it tore at him.

Andrew must have picked up on this, because he said, "Seeing as how we're friends, some friendly advice?"

"Yeah?"

"You want Dean to stop beating himself up? Stop beating _yourself_ up. You called back. Then you kept calling back. So did she. She'll be in your life if you want her to be. And it seems to me, you do."

"Easier said than done. Especially with how I invited her over for a re-enactment of the Inquisition."

Andrew chuckled. "Think he's set up the pyre, yet?"

"For me, or for Jane?"

"I'll go check on the heretic to see how's she's faring in a little while."

 

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

 

Jane, as it happened, was doing as well as could be expected, given that Dean had gone back to frowning through his growled questioning.

"Who _did_ you think you were? To him?"

"I still wasn't sure at the time," Jane answered. "And besides, freaking him out was the last thing I wanted, I mean, can you _imagine?_   Waking up, going about a normal day, then some _rando chick_ rolls up saying she's your sister?" She winked, and a slow grin eased across her face as Dean's expression relaxed, and he let out a small, but genuine, eye-creasing laugh. Yet as soon as it began, he cut himself off. He self-corrected with a clearing of his throat, though she was happy to note the frown was gone. At least, for now.

"Yeah, that must be a real shocker," he replied dryly.

"I didn't have proof, but I had his real name," Jane continued. "Winchester was the key to the first lock. Once I had that..." She trailed off and held up her hands as if to say _ta-da!_

"'Cause the last name ---"

"--- helped me find records on Millie. Namely, a marriage certificate to one Henry Winchester. The church ladies had said they'd heard she'd moved to Illinois at some point, then the trail went from there to Kansas ---"

"--- and the disappearing caller had said Kansas," Dean concluded.

Jane nodded. "Andrew knew I'd had zero luck with what pieces I had, how frustrating it had been. And he knew about the dreams. I think maybe he was just trying to give me a mystery to solve, something else to search for, to keep my spirits up."

Dean leaned back in his chair, thinking; he reached out a hand, turning the locket back-and-forth on the table.

"Can I ask you something?" Jane asked after a few moments.

Dean looked up at her.

"Where's the bathroom?"

Dean blinked; not what he was expecting. "Um, yeah, sure. Just go down that hall. It's like a locker room, you can't miss it."

"Okay, thanks," Jane said, scooting her chair back and standing. She'd gone through the war room, but before she started down the hall, Dean spoke.

"So you're sure?"

Jane stopped, turned back to him. "Mmm-hmm. Pretty sure," she replied.

Dean nodded. After a brief moment of silence, he said, "I'll do the blood test. Don't know why you need it though, if you've already tested Sam."

"Because... well, the goal in our work is to get to 100% of anything, I suppose. Not a lot in this world that's 100% for sure," she answered.

Dean considered this reasoning. "So we're not actually, _technically_ related til that test, then."

Jane laughed. "No. Just friends, I guess?"

"I don't know."

"Right, right, don't know what you think of me, yet." But then Jane's face grew solemn, her tone shifting to one of complete sincerity. "Proof or not, I've already been thinking of Sam as family for awhile now. And you're _his_ family. So to me, you're family, too."

"Even though we're not officially blood?"

And though his external appearance held strong, the last of Dean's resolve quietly crumbled when Jane looked right in his eyes as she replied.

"Family's not just blood, Dean."

When he didn't respond, Jane turned and continued down the hall.

And since Dean had immediately gone back to looking down at the locket, he didn't see when she wobbled a bit and paused to lean against the wall, steadying herself before moving on.

.

* * *

.

Outside the bunker, across the road, two men in dark suits walked towards each other. They were out of sight, amongst a small cluster of bushes and a few trees. One was scrolling through something on his phone.

"You check the registration?" the other asked.

"To a company."

"And?"

"And what, you think I haven't been trying to find out the owners?" the first replied in a snarky tone.

"Great, that's exactly what we'll tell him."

"I'm as sick of being on this detail as you, okay?"

The second sighed. "I know."

"So... should we make the call?"

"Do you think it's the girl or the guy?"

"He's tall. And blonde."

"So?"

"She's not blonde. Wasn't the mother a blonde?"

"And the dad was into muscle cars, and this dude's driving a Honda, what's your point? They're the first visitors to this godforsaken place since we got this assignment. It's a lead. We make the call."

Now the first man sighed, nodded, dialed - and then upon an answer, said:

"We may have visual on target."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	2. Of Letters (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of many letters is written to begin a story no one’s been telling, though the beats remain the same: two brothers struggle with kept secrets; an angel is challenged; a demon is up to his old tricks; a new, powerful enemy hovers - and a visitor to the bunker just may hold answers to questions no one’s been asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's Note - May 2017: While one of the "keep to canon rules" of this commissioned story pertains to letting dead characters stay dead, as of this writing/publishing, neither myself nor my commissioner believe there to be enough evidence to say with certainty that several characters mentioned as being active participants in the Winchesters' lives in the story are, in fact, in canon, permanently gone. In light of the season 12 finale and subsequent statements by a certain actor, I *do*, however, advise that with regards to the first thought-gone character who comes up below, that readers picture whomever they'd like in the role rather than the actor who portrayed the character on the show, as that actor's take is not the entire thought process regarding how this character is/will be presented for the duration of the story. -Nash.]

* * *

_"Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change."_  
_\- Mary Shelley: author,_ _Frankenstein_

* * *

** NOW **

.

To the Family, near and far:

Dearest colleagues, it was so good to hear how much you enjoyed our last visit. First, please remain sure in our unwavering gratitude for all you do, both individually and together. It makes times of trial speed by, and times of joy much richer. For this, there are no words.

I will reserve this space instead for answers to your questions, which are understandable, and hope the explanations find you wherever you may be. I am delighted you've requested this in the written form - so much of our interaction is via screens and limited gatherings that it seems we miss so many details. And don't they say the devil lies in the details?

I have engaged the whole household, as it were, to assist in the filling of the gaps. We must tell you more of times you already know, of times you never knew existed. No one individual was present for everything, and no one report, one perspective, will cover all of the story.

And there is a story no one's telling. At least, part of a story. Of _the_ story. The one you feel you know so well.

For all that surrounds the Winchesters, the mysteries and the mistakes, the ghosts and goblins, the sacraments and sacrifices, we think we know most all of them. Perhaps there are just some parts of their lives that were so well-hidden, even the ones who lived it never saw them coming.

As you know, Dean certainly never did. As for Sam - well, Sam knew some of it. More than Dean, at first, at least. Which is why, if you'd asked Dean when he believed everything changed, he'd say that one particular weekend. He would give you a very Dean answer at first, telling you Jane had him at "pie" - but it was really her outlook on life. On death. On family.

You asked when it was exactly that Sam began to speak with Jane. He would have to dig through his email archive - his real email, not one of several dummies which were part and parcel of a fugitive hunter's life - to find the first contact, the first time he'd read her name. He'd have to pull up several phone logs to know the first time he'd heard her voice.

All he knew was how dependent upon their talks he'd become since that summer. That summer, when Dean was away doing demony things. And it was nice to have another sibling to share in that burden, though she didn't know it at the time.

What Sam can say for sure is when he made the decision - admittedly, for himself, but for Dean as well - that they needed her, just as much as she needed them. It was after the crux of the drama with the darkness, the Men of Letters, their mother, and all that followed. You know those stories, so I won't waste time with them here.

When he had a moment to catch his breath, look around at life a bit again, it prompted him to steal away and send a text:

_I think we need to meet each other, if you're up for it - when's a good time?_

And he remembers clearly the mix of relief and nervousness he felt when, not three minutes later, he received a reply:

_Silly you - ANY of the times_

You should know what the rest of this story is about before you hear it, but that's a little hard to say. Perhaps you should know, first, what it is not about. It is not about a quick fix to a pair of broken lives by something... some _one_... new.

And it's not all about magic, contrary to what you've heard about the Winchesters thus far. Appearances, to understate it dramatically, have not been what they seem. Though in other moments, turns out they were eerily spot-on.

This story was once contained in boxes upon boxes, spread across a bunker in Kansas, brought together from a variety of former homes and lives. In them were thousands of words - from digital to paper form, typed carefully, handwritten messily - visual and audio recordings, photographs, journals, items ranging from jewelry to biological samples, clipped articles and case files. It is long and messy work, prying truth from legends trapped in locked away memories. Thankfully, they had plenty of help.

Truly, this is the story of a much-needed kick in the ass. As one of Bobby's favorite authors, Louis L'Amour, once wrote: _"There will come a time when you believe everything is finished; that will be the beginning"_. So mostly, this story is about how the Winchesters' life as they knew it came to an end.

And that weekend is as good a place to start the end as any...

* * *

** THEN **

.

Dean was huddled over the table, staring down. He'd opened the locket again and was studying the pictures. Glancing up at the sound of footsteps, he closed it and cleared his throat.

"She'll be right back," Dean said, receiving a nod in return.

"That's something, isn't it?" Andrew asked him. "Two tiny pictures got her all the way here."

"Yeah, well, the way I hear it, you had something to do with it, too," Dean replied, looking up at the other man with more than a little suspicion in his tone and on his face.

Andrew came closer, then leaned against the table next to the one where Dean sat. "That's what friends are for, right?"

Dean didn't reply. He was concerned about things he couldn't talk about with Andrew, or Jane, nor – based on Sam's response thus far – even his own brother. If she was their sister, it bothered him for reasons beyond just the thought of their father separating them. It wasn't exactly that she had been _gone_ \- what bothered him came down to one singular thought: Who... or _what_... had hidden her? But that would have to wait; for now, he would engage in conversation, mine for more information until he could be alone. Until he could do his own investigation. And wring Castiel's neck. Not necessarily in that order.

"I wonder if my mom gave this to her," Dean said, holding up the locket a bit. "Dad never really talked about his mother."

"Your mother's parents died when she was still pretty young, right?"

"Yeah."

"Perhaps she grew to think of Millie as a mother. Would make sense."

Dean made a scoffing sound. "None of this makes any sense."

"Was your mother close to her parents?"

"I guess. No. In some ways. I don't know, they were just very different," Dean managed to finally say. Intel gathering aside, he didn't care for Andrew's prying.

Andrew noticed, and moved to excuse himself. "Well, I'll--"

"They were just intense, they pressured her a lot about what she was supposed to do with her life," Dean said abruptly, causing Andrew to resume his lean. "I don't think they were crazy about her marrying my dad. But they didn't live to see it, so..."

Andrew nodded. "I understand. I wonder why?"

"Different religions," Dean lied, figuring it was as good an answer as any. Different _obsession_ , more like it. Or so they thought. If only they knew then what the future would hold.

"Do you think your mother's side of the family was as..." Andrew paused, searching for the right word. " _Devoted_ as your father's?"

"Sam'd be the one to ask about all that," Dean replied, attempting to dodge so as not to trample on any foundation of deception Sam had managed to lay.

"I know Sam's only into it as far as his work goes. Not religious either, I take it?"

"Didn't think so..."

Now Dean was the one who paused, his eyes surveying the library briefly.

"...but it, ah, seems to follow me."

.

* * *

MONACO  
THE SAME NIGHT

.

The sea of old money and new designer duds was accompanied by the sound of banal conversation and occasional waves of exchanged pleasantries. The estate was still buzzing with activity, charging onward into the night. And one guest in particular had been working the room.

Crowley was currently in the midst of being especially charming to the attractive older woman in front of him. She'd been giggling and blushing like a high school girl. The party was more of a fundraiser, though she didn't know it, and he didn't plan on telling her she'd be relieved of most of her substantial funds before the week was out. He had just handed her another champagne, when he felt the tap on his shoulder.

"Sir, I hate to interrupt..." the minion began, only to be cut off.

"And yet, here you are," Crowley said sharply, turning to him with a pointed _look_.

The minion leaned in, whispering in Crowley's ear, and the demon's eyes grew wide.

"They're certain?" he clarified.

The minion nodded.

"I do apologize, Duchess," Crowley said, turning back to the woman. "I'm afraid I have to leave."

"Nothing wrong, I hope?" she asked.

"An unexpected arrival," he answered smoothly, kissing her hand before leaving.

As they made their exit, Crowley's walk turned to a brisk stride. He tossed his champagne flute into a nearby urn, likely a priceless one. The minion lost a few steps as he listened to it clink and shatter. Crowley reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulling out his phone.

"Have they canvassed the area, not too close?" Crowley asked the minion, who scurried up to his side, and nodded.

"Yes, sir. Additional support arrived shortly after, and keeping a wide perimeter. No activity. Awaiting any orders."

"Good." Crowley dialed and after a moment, said one word. "Leave."

But he was grinning as he hung up and returned the phone to his pocket, obviously pleased, the interruption of his night forgotten. He was even humming under his breath, and the minion could've sworn he heard a bit of singing.

"...come out, come out, wherever you are..."

"Sir?" asked the seemingly confused minion.

Crowley ignored him and continued out the door, past the valet stands, the minion on his heels. They went beyond the tree-lined drive, out of the line of sight of the entrance.

"Where are you going, sir?" the minion finally asked.

Glancing back over his shoulder, before he blinked away, Crowley answered in a sing-song voice.

"Kansas she says is the name of the star."  
.

* * *

.

In the bathroom, as Jane was washing her hands, she looked in the mirror.

"Ugh," she muttered. Her eyes were doing that thing again, where they looked almost dilated, and if she'd seen herself from across a room, she would have thought - _That gal needs a nap. And STAT._

Jane splashed water on her face, then patted it dry. She pinched her cheeks, trying to infuse some color, and told herself it was just the horrid lighting in the room. Pulling a tinted lip balm from her pocket, she raised it to her lips. Only her hand was trembling too much to apply it. She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Please, not now," she whispered.

Opening her eyes, she steadied the shaking hand with her other, and made it work. After giving herself a final once-over, she slowly made her way to the door, then planted a smile on her face and willed her legs to keep an even pace down the hallway. As she came into the room, she saw Andrew leaning against the table, listening to Dean saying something. But at one glance, he stood, walking around to her chair and holding it out for her.

"Thanks," she said, and sat.

"You doing okay?" he asked, keeping his tone light, but she knew by the look in his eye that it wasn't a generic question.

"Mmm-hmm. You?"

"Never better. Do you still want coffee?"

So she _did_ look tired. "Maybe just a cup, sure."

Andrew gave her back a quick rub. "I'll get Sam to help me make some more."

"I'm gonna get a beer," Dean said, standing. "You, uh, want one? Either of you?"

Andrew shook his head. "No. But thanks."

"Coffee'll do me," Jane replied.

Dean slid the locket back across the table to Jane, then pointed her direction before he turned to go, saying, "And I owe you a story, so get ready."

Jane smiled. "Sounds great."

After they left, she went to put the necklace back over her head when she felt a catch in her chest.

_Fine then, body_ , she thought, quickly tucking the locket behind the dress' neckline. _Have it your way._

She clasped her hands in her lap.

_Sitting still now. Just give me a little longer_.  
.

* * *

.

Castiel had opted to eschew Dean's request and instead came to the bunker. Something was off, he  _felt_ it, so before going in, he took a look around. And now he found himself watching various demons dispersing themselves around the building.

By twos and threes, more and more had appeared - a dozen or so that he could see. They had created what was obviously a perimeter and then, suddenly, they'd all begun backing off. He'd initially thought they were being repelled by the bunker's warding, but then he realized they weren't near enough for it to have mattered. They hadn't even been _trying_ to get closer.

And then there was the matter of a car he'd never seen, parked by the side of the road, near the steps leading down to what was essentially Sam and Dean's front door. Coupled with Dean's hushed, cryptic phone call from earlier, Castiel was officially perplexed. Even so, nothing indicated that the brothers were in any immediate danger.

The demons abruptly started blinking away - in seconds, all had left. Castiel frowned. He had tried calling Dean back earlier, to no avail. Pulling out his phone, he tried calling again. No answer. So he persisted. Now it went straight to voice mail.

Castiel considered his options - he _could_ just go in. He could keep trying to call. He could leave, attempt to determine why a group of demons were staking out the bunker.

Or, he could wait. And observe. And listen. And be ready. Though for _what_ , the angel could not say.  
.

* * *

.

Sam and Andrew were chatting while they waited on the coffee to finish brewing, when a loud exclamation from Dean startled both of them. They shared a _look_ , then at the same time turned to head to the library.

"No _way!_ " Jane was saying as they approached the doorway, followed by something unintelligible from Dean.

Suddenly, Jane was snickering. Another something from Dean in a low voice, with a tone that Sam knew meant he was imitating someone. And that was when Jane's snickers turned into full-on laughter.

Sam and Andrew slowly eased back into the war room - now Dean was also laughing, trying and failing to get words out.

"Wow," Sam commented softly.

"Yeah," agreed Andrew.

Jane's laugh suddenly turned to a deep gasp, almost like a hiccup, then came a spasm that wracked her whole body, causing Dean's own laughter to immediately cease.

"Hey," he said, beginning to rise from his seat - he was shocked to note the edges of her mouth were actually a bit blue, her overall coloring suddenly looking gray.

But Jane held up a hand and attempted a partial smile as she reached into her cardigan pocket, pulling out something small and holding it to her mouth. She placed a shaky hand against the table, tried to inhale. Then she closed her eyes, gripped the edge, tried again.

Dean watched as she clearly strained to breathe, still hovering over his chair. "Hey, Sammy?" he called out.

Andrew was already heading to the coat rack, Sam right behind him, when his pager went off. Andrew reached to his back pocket, touching it so the beeping would cease, not breaking his pace.

"What _was_ that?" Sam asked worriedly.

"I'm on call."

"No, I meant Jane."

Andrew opened his satchel, removing a stethoscope and throwing it around his neck. He then pulled out a zippered pouch and a blood pressure cuff. He turned to face Sam again. "That is... complicated."

When the two arrived at the table, Jane had improved but she still seemed shaken. Andrew pulled a chair closer to her right side, placing the pouch on the table before attaching the cuff to her arm.

"Could ya maybe have moved a little slower?" Dean spat to no one in particular.

"We had to swing by the coat rack, everything's gonna be fine, he's a doctor, remember?" Sam replied, then gestured for Dean to take his seat.

Dean begrudgingly did, then barked, "We have a coat rack?!"

Andrew had finished taking Jane's blood pressure, deftly removing the cuff and tossing it on the table. "A touch off from where we'd like it," he reported calmly, and Jane immediately rolled her eyes, frowning a bit. Andrew moved the stethoscope to just inside the top of her dress, listening. Sam sat in the chair beside Dean. They exchanged troubled looks, then in near-unison turned to gaze at the scene unfolding in front of them.

Part of the reason they survived a life of hunting - survived for the _most_ part - was because they observed their surroundings. They'd talk later about how they missed something was wrong with her: the pallor that wasn't quite hidden by her occasional blush; darkness beneath her eyes that was more than perhaps a few rough nights' sleep; how now, upon noticing _them_ noticing, she seemed to get embarrassed, slouching in her chair.

Andrew continued to listen, re-positioned, listened again. The shifting of Jane's cardigan and the neckline of her dress revealed what Dean thought was scarring. He glanced at Sam, but didn't catch his eye. When he looked back, he had certainly caught Jane's, and found he could not read her thousand-yard-stare at all.

"All right," Andrew said, looping the stethoscope back around his neck, then reaching to Jane's arms one after the other to help her remove the light cardigan she wore - she was trembling.

"Can I get you a blanket or something?" Sam asked.

"Oh, no - no thank you," Jane said, her voice raspy.

Sam nodded in acknowledgment, concern visibly etched on his face.

Andrew laid the sweater across her lap, stood and moved behind her, continuing his listening, this time to her back. When Jane saw Dean and Sam notice the bandaging, and the tiny tubes with caps peeking from it, now visible on her upper left arm, she self-consciously brought her hand up to cover it. "All right," Andrew said again, removing the stethoscope and hanging it around his neck once more. "Let's do another good one."

Jane nodded, bringing what Dean and Sam had correctly assumed to be an inhaler back to her mouth. Andrew moved his chair around to her left side, sat and opened the pouch, removing a pair of gloves and putting them on. He kept an eye on her as she took in the medicine, holding her breath for a moment before exhaling slowly.

"You got asthma?" Dean asked.

"Sort of," Jane croaked out.

"The kind that requires your doctor to go with you everywhere?" he shot back, a sternness to his voice that caused Andrew to glance up at him sharply.

"Dean," Sam softly admonished.

"It's okay," said Jane. "It's... it's why I was looking for family in the first place."

Sam and Dean watched her as she glanced away, taking time for a few more deep breaths before she went on.

"It seems like I've never _not_ known that I wasn't with my real family. And that was... that _became_... okay. It did. As far as I was concerned, I'd had Nanny, and then I sort of got a brother---" a glance at Andrew "---and I figured one day maybe I'd make a family of my own. But you know how life is. Best laid plans, and all." She stopped then, looking at the two of them apologetically, like she had absolutely no idea how to continue.

"What... are you... are you sick?" Sam asked, gently as he could.

Jane didn't respond right away, taking a moment to consider her answer, then said, "Most days, I guess I am. I wasn't supposed to be today."

Andrew sighed as he was doing something Dean and Sam couldn't quite see with the bandaging on her arm, followed by attaching a syringe. "And that's on me," he said, pulling back on the plunger to where a bit of blood appeared, then injecting clear solution. "I thought we'd weaned you off such frequency, and now---"

Jane laid her free hand atop one of his, causing Andrew to pause and look up at her over his glasses with a genuinely pained expression. "Uh-uh," she told him with a small head shake.

He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded, removing the syringe and picking up another, this one filled with a syrupy, ever-so-slightly sky blue-tinted liquid.

Jane looked back at Sam and Dean. "Sometimes, it's like my brain forgets that my body needs oxygen. Then it remembers, and panics, and that causes my lungs to panic, so..." She trailed off and gestured with her free hand towards Andrew and the scattered objects. They stared back at her, neither of them knowing what to say. And, as if she'd read their thoughts, she said, "I don't really know what to say. I don't... I know I don't want to scare you. I know I didn't want to talk about this today. I was going to _try_ to, but I didn't want to. And definitely not this way."

"You could've told me," Sam said, not in an accusatory manner, but caring tinged with frustration. "You _should've_ told me. I never would've... I would've come to you or we could've met somewhere, so you wouldn't have had to travel."

Jane raised an eyebrow. "And miss seeing this place? No _way_. Besides, if we'd waited til I was all better..."

She seemed to get sad then, and her head dipped slightly. Her gaze drifted to Andrew, who was finished and now re-adjusting the bandaging and her sleeve. He removed his gloves and met her eye. Speaking more to Andrew than the brothers, her voice was so soft when she spoke this time, that it was almost a whisper.

"Time is funny for me. Can't quite say how much of it I've got."

"Don't see the funny, but maybe that's just me," Dean said.

Jane raised her head, looked him right in the eye, and very calmly asked a question. "What do you think the best way is, Dean? To die?"

Sam and Andrew shared a glance, each looking a little shocked and a little leery. Dean, on the other hand, didn't flinch.  And there was no hesitation whatsoever when he answered.

"Quick. Don't matter much about the hows or whys."

"And when that decision isn't yours to make?"

"Then the best way is to go out fighting."

Jane slowly smiled. "Well now I know exactly what to think of you."

"You brought your pills, yeah?" Andrew cut in, standing and packing up his kit.

"Uh-huh," Jane answered, but with a wary tone.

He seemed almost nervous to say the next part, but did anyway. "I was being cautious, so I packed a cooler with an infusion---"

"Oh, damn it," Jane spat, clearly annoyed.

"---and they've called me in, but if we leave now I can get you started at the apartment and they can just make do for a couple hours in the meantime---"

"No, just... _no_ ," she replied irritably, bringing her hands up to her temples and rubbing.

"---but it would be best to get it started now, take an extra dose of the---"

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

"---and still do all the normal pills before bed."

Jane kept rubbing.

Andrew turned to Sam. "That is, if you're comfortable driving her home later on tonight."

"Of course, absolutely," said Sam.

Now Andrew turned to Dean. "She needs to be fairly stationary and calm for the next few hours. If you aren't comfortable having her here, or with getting her home safely, I need to know."

Dean was still watching Jane, who was slowly putting her cardigan back on. Then it registered that Andrew was speaking to him. So Dean stood up to face the doctor and handed out a firm reply. "We got this."

Andrew gave him a curt nod. "Good."

"Yup, good, super, great," Jane chimed in, breaking the tension. "Hi, woo-hoo, look, she's still breathing and still in the room."

Andrew's face softened and the barest hint of a grin threatened to appear as he cut his eyes over to her briefly. Looking back to Sam, he asked, "Walk me out? I'll send you back in with the meds?"

"Sure."

Andrew walked around the table, grabbing the rest of his things and then, stooping, gave Jane a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Go away," said Jane, clearly teasing.

"Happily," he answered in kind.

After Andrew left, Sam following, Jane made a frustrated sound, folded her arms on the table and flopped her head down on them. She said something, but it was all muffled. Dean moved a chair so that he was at the head of the table, adjacent to her rather than across from her, and sat.

"Didn't catch that," he told her.

Jane did not raise her head, but she did raise a finger, pointing it in his direction, saying, "Still don't want your organs, just for the record."

"Didn't offer."

She tilted her head, and the faintest smile appeared, then faded. "I'm going to tell you something I don't plan on telling Sam."

"Why?"

"Because something tells me you'd know anyway. You'd see it. Same thing that tells me he won't want to."

"That this is more than just a breathing thing?"

A tiny nod. "Andrew's trying hard. But I don't think this is fixable."

Sam came back in just then, carrying a small cooler and the cloth bag Jane had brought in with her. "Okay, what else do you need?" he asked, setting them down on the table and looking at Jane, who was sitting up slowly.

"Um... let's see... a couple of the pills tend to set me on fire, do you happen to have stomach stuff? The pink kind would be great... there's other kinds... or milk, whole milk... 2%?... 1%?"

Jane kept going because each time, Dean or Sam or both of them would shake their heads.

"Oh, well, there's the ice cream, maybe I can just--- _no?_ "

Jane had stopped herself due to Dean's expression.

Sam stared at his brother, completely annoyed. "You're _kidding_."

Dean stood and pointed at Jane. "She only brought two of those little single-serving ones!"

"They were _pints_ , Dean!"

"And four people, and I'm a growing boy."

"It's fine," Jane said with a wave of her hand, and reached for the cooler, pulling it closer and opening it. "I'll just do the extra pills later."

"He said to do them now," Dean said to her, then looked to Sam, adding, "Right? Isn't that what he said? Something about ---"

Sam was nodding in agreement. "He said do a... an injection ---"

"Nah, infusion."

"--- infusion... and then pills, and then more pills after ---"

"--- after we take you home, before you go to bed," Dean finished.

And then they both looked down at her somewhat authoritatively, Sam with his arms crossed and Dean with his hands on his hips.

Jane stopped rummaging and looked them over, amused.

"We'll go get whatever you need," said Sam.

"Well, one of us needs to stay," said Dean.

"Afraid I'll pocket the silver?" Jane asked wryly, but they weren't paying attention.

"I'll stay," Sam told him.

"No, _I'll_ stay," Dean replied.

" _Why?_ " Sam asked, visibly irritated.

Dean ticked off his answer on his fingers. "Uh, three reasons: I'm the big brother, I said so, and you've gotten to pick her brain for what, _how_ many years now?"

"She needs to _rest_ , not answer your eight million questions!" Sam shot back.

Jane head moved as she watched the back-and-forth with slightly wide eyes and parted lips.

"I'm not going to – jeez, will you just _go?_ " Dean spat.

"You've known her about five minutes and you're acting all possessive, like---"

"Like _what_?"

"Like she's your _car_."

Dean raised his eyebrows and gave Sam an _oh, yeah?_ look. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and grabbed Sam's hand, putting them in it firmly. Sam promptly dropped them on the table. They stared at each other for a brief moment and then, in unison, began rock-paper-scissors.

Sam huffed when he lost, but he picked up the keys and turned to Jane, saying, "I'll be right back. If there's anything else you need---"

"We'll call," Dean cut in. And as an afterthought, he added, "Beer. Probably more ice cream. But, beer."

Sam turned back to him, opening his mouth to speak, paused, then ultimately said, "You know what? I'm not gonna do this in front of her."

Dean looked smug.

Jane had a tiny smile on her lips. "Thanks, y'all. Seriously. And I do hope when I take my screw-things-up services public, that I can count on you two for references."

"You didn't screw anything up, it's no big deal. I'll be right back," Sam told her, and turned to leave after giving Dean one last stern look.

Dean cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. "I will call you if anything happens," he said slowly, enunciating every syllable, as if he were explaining something to a toddler.

Sam did not acknowledge it and just kept walking.

Dean looked over at Jane, who was pulling various items from the cooler and her bag, organizing them on the table. "Only child, you said?" he asked, flopping back into the chair, rubbing his eyes and sighing.

"At least two of Nanny's grandkids were always around," Jane replied. "But when they fought, there was usually more yelling. And later, fists and blood and somebody got grounded."

"Yeah, well, we've done that a bunch, too."

"When you were kids?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know... like, maybe last week?"

Jane chuckled, and Dean was glad to see that while she still seemed a little pale, the shakiness had faded and she didn't seem as weak.

"That was some magic potion he gave you," he commented.

"No, _that_ was years of exhausting research," Jane replied, continuing to set up her infusion supplies.

"Can I ask... what is it, exactly? Not the stuff, I mean... you know... how many people have---"

"Just me."

"What?"

"That we know of," she clarified. "Nothing in the medical literature or anyone Andrew's contacted has ever documented or treated this cluster of..."

"Crap?" Dean offered.

"Yeah!" she agreed with a grin. Then she paused in her assembling and turned her head to look at him. "I will bake you five pies of your choosing, redeemable at any time, if we can _not_ talk about the nitty-gritties of this right now."

"That include cheesecake?"

"Sure."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"Nope."

"It's a deal."  
.

* * *

.

Lebanon was a tiny place, and for the most part, this suited Sam just fine. Dean was the one who needed a bar with some pool hustling; tearing apart a car just to put it back together; needed _activity_ in order to still his mind. Sam just needed books; a TV show; _quiet_.

So though he was annoyed at being the errand boy initially, the drive a few towns over to the 24 hour superstore was a needed decompression. He hadn't realized how tightly wound he had been til he was so relaxed on the way back, he was on auto-pilot and singing along to the radio under his breath. At a stoplight, he took a moment to glance at his phone - no call from Dean meant no reason for worry.

The green light came and he accelerated, only to nearly swerve into the oncoming lane when Castiel popped into the passenger seat.

"Son of a ---" Sam managed to get out as he braked, pulling quickly onto the shoulder and turning off the ignition. Several cars honked angrily as they sped by. A grocery bag toppled into the floorboard behind him.

Castiel glanced back at it, then said, "I apologize for startling you, Sam."

Sam looked over at him. The angel was in medical scrubs, a badge clipped to the "v" of the top. A stethoscope was around his neck, and a digital watch was on his wrist. "What is... you... just... wha...?" he managed.

"I needed to discuss something with you. Regarding what Dean asked me to do."

Sam blinked a few times, then his eyes narrowed. "What _Dean_ asked you to _do_..."

"He asked that I look into a physician named Andrew---"

"He... _when?!_ "

"Earlier this evening. I called when he didn't arrive at the motel. He intimated you had sent us away under false pretenses."

Sam sighed, saying, "Cas... look, I just needed the place to myself, and... I'm sorry, okay?"

Castiel's brow creased. "But a man fitting the description Dean gave me left the bunker not long ago. I had come to speak to Dean because he wouldn't take my calls. So I followed the man."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You _what_ , now?"

"It appears he works in the emergency department of the hospital not twenty miles from the bunker." Castiel hesitated for a moment. "Unfortunately, I believe he noticed I was observing him."

"And?"

"And," Castiel replied, pointing to the badge, "I am the department's newest registered nurse."

Sam just stared, open-mouthed.

"I gave myself a bachelor's degree and two years of experience at a hospital in Detroit."

"Oh god," Sam mumbled, running a hand over his face.

"He didn't seem to question anything. By all accounts, he's a perfectly normal man. What's going on, Sam? Why does Dean want information on him? And why doesn't he want me looking into his research assistant? A woman called Jane?"

Sam leaned back in his seat - he'd been dreading this conversation almost as much as the one with Dean. "You may not know her by name. But you know who she is."

"I'm afraid I do not."

"Cas. I'm not angry with you... I was, for a little while, but I'm not now. I know we have a sister."

Castiel frowned. "No, you do not."

" _Cas._ "

"I was charged with Dean initially, yes, but my guardianship is over the Winchester children. Yourself and Dean. There is no third."

Sam cranked up the car. "I'm not going through this again tonight. I have to get back to the bunker."

And in the blink of an eye, they were in the garage.

Sam shook his head and once more turned off the ignition, was out of the car in a flash, his jaw tight, furiously unloading the bags, every movement stilted yet rushed.

Castiel waited for him to finish before he spoke. "Be careful, Sam. If this woman is professing to be---"

"She _is_ our sister," Sam said loudly, slamming the car door. "She's not a demon or an angel or anything else I've spent most of my time, my _life_ , with." He paused, and his tone softened a bit. "I'm not stupid, Cas."

Castiel nodded. "I know. And if you and Dean---"

Now Sam's entire body went rigid.

" _Dean_ and I are not on the same page with this if he's asking you to do recon behind my back. Apparently we aren't even in the same _book_."  
.

* * *

.

Dean watched in silence as Jane primed tubing and attached it to a small infusion bag filled with fluid that was an orange tint versus the pale blue of the earlier syringe. She situated the bag inside a small box, closing the clear cover and then pushing buttons on it to set time and dosage. She even showed him how to attach it to one of the ports coming from her arm, allowing him to help by holding it steady so she could screw the end of the tubing on tightly.

"And now, the fascinating part," Jane said, pushing one last button. The pump started up with a whisper of a sound, a small purr almost, and the little wheel around which the tubing wrapped turned an almost undetectable amount. "It will do that every few minutes for the next couple of hours. The big pump at home is more annoying. It's just the _best_ when you're trying to sleep," she commented dryly.

"Is it stout stuff?"

"Earlier versions torched many of my good veins, and the follow-ups weren't a hell of a lot better." She reached up, pulling aside the top of her cardigan and part of the dress' neckline, letting him clearly see what he'd rightly guessed was scarring, to the side of her sternum and stretching underneath her collarbone.

"So not a bar brawl?" Dean asked, and she grinned.

"My knife fighting days are behind me. No, Andrew had the good sense to put in ports before every vein hid from us. Drops it right in at the source. Smart thing, too, because that would've been..." She trailed off with a grimace. "And then _those_ eventually gave out. So, here we are."

Dean nodded as if he understood, even though he couldn't. Not truly. Except maybe from the angle of having something trapped inside that was out of your control - _that_ he understood, and all too well. Jane was glancing around at the library, which made him edgy. He assumed Sam had hidden anything obvious - and apparently purchased a coat rack - but, still. There's no way Sam had anticipated her staying this long. And suddenly she was standing, tossing the pump into her bag, then slinging the straps over her shoulder.

"I thought you were supposed to stay, y'know, relaxed," Dean said, standing with her and blocking her ability to move away from the table. At her odd glance, he quickly recovered, pulling her chair out, as if that's why he stood in the first place.

"I just shouldn't be running any marathons. It'll be fine," Jane answered, though she raised her eyebrows when he still didn't move. "Is it okay if I look at some of the books? I'd love to see what passed for science with these Men of Letters."

"Oh... oh yeah, sure," Dean replied, forcing a chuckle. He was kicking himself for not knowing the arrangement of the books as well as Sam. But he knew plenty, and a couple of shelves in particular. "Here," he said, leading her. "Sam's the expert and all, but I've looked at a lot of them. Gets a little slow down here sometimes. While I'm waiting on jobs."

"I bet."

"So... okay, here's a good one," Dean said, after running a finger along several spines, scanning titles. He pulled it out and handed it to her.

"A Treatise on the Hierarchies of the Upper Echelons of Demons, Volume 5," Jane read aloud. "Sweet lord, volume _five_?"

"The first four are really dry. Five's when it starts getting good."

She shook her head, saying, "Oh, you poor, bored man." Jane handed Dean the book and he returned it to the shelf. She continued to glance around, stepping away from him slowly. Then her gaze landed on the friezes. "Interesting."

"Um, yeah," Dean said, coming to her side. "It's sigils. For warding."

"Forwarding what?"

"No, warding, like guarding. To keep out the bogeymen."

Jane raised an eyebrow. "My hopes for science are rapidly dwindling."

They wandered a bit more in silence, Dean trying not to hang too close on her heels. But she stopped and her eyes lit up a bit when she got a good look at the telescope. The machine in her bag whirred as she walked towards it. "How did I not notice _this_ beauty? Hmmm... maybe I gave up on 'em too soon."

"We don't really mess with it. I think something's busted. Sam never could get it to focus. Or a bird crapped on something up there."

"I suppose they were more about astrology than astronomy, anyway," she commented, gliding a hand along the cool metal.

"Probably. We'll have to ask Sam."

Jane nodded - and then she looked up, pointed, turned to face Dean with a mischievous expression on her face.

"Ever go on the roof?"  
.

* * *

.

Jane was leaning on the concrete ledge, peering out across what one might call the backyard of the bunker. The moon was fairly bright that night, and she could make out rows upon uneven rows of wheat. They shifted slightly to-and-fro with the light breeze. The quiet was broken by the sound of the stairwell door opening and closing. Looking over her shoulder, Jane saw Dean was unfolding two plastic lawn chairs. He glanced around, walked several feet away and into the shadows, returning with a medium-sized terracotta planter possessing a partially broken-off bottom. Flipping it over, he turned the break to the far side, then put it in front of one of the chairs.

"That's you," he told Jane as she walked closer, pointing to the chair with the makeshift footstool.

"Perfect," she replied, sitting down and propping up her legs. They'd used a small camping lantern to navigate the stairs before finding the light switch, and now Dean set it between them.

"Here," he said. "You get the last one." He opened and handed her a bottle of beer, then opened another for himself and sat down.

She looked at him questioningly.

Dean shrugged. "You only live once, right?" And he quickly took a drink of his beer, washing the taste of the words out of his mouth. _If she only knew_.

"Alrighty," Jane replied. After taking a small sip, she pulled the bottle away from her mouth and tilted it towards the lantern's light, reading the label. Then she took a bigger sip. "Oh, how about that!"

"What?"

"I hate beer."

Dean blinked, then his brow creased. "I didn't... well, hell, don't drink it!"

Jane laughed, and said, "No, I mean, I actually like _this_ beer." She set the bottle down next to her chair, then rooted through her bag for a moment, pulling out a small notebook that had a pen clipped to the front cover. Opening it up, she flipped a few pages. Finding what she needed, she clicked the pen and drew a straight line. "Thank you. You just helped me _big time_. No more trying out light beers, now I know the darker the better."

"Bucket list?"

Jane wrinkled her nose. "Oh god, no. How morbid. This is a... things I want to learn or experience before I make my grand exit type of list."

Dean gave her a _look_. "And that's different, because...?"

Jane picked up the bottle again, taking a drink before continuing. "Seriously good," she commented. "Bucket lists are things like... risk-taking. Climbing Everest. Swim with sharks. Or they're sickeningly poetic. Go see the northern lights. Ride in a gondola..." She gave him a flat look and briefly crossed her eyes. " _Not_ my jam."

Dean made a _gimme_ motion with his hand, and she passed the book to him. He looked over the first handful of items quickly. There were a few others crossed out along with _Find a beer that doesn't make you wish for whiskey_ , but otherwise the list was mostly intact. "'Learn a magic trick'... 'Plant a garden'... What's 'Knock the cover off the ball' mean?" he asked.

"I just mean a home run. It's a little ambitious of me. First I should probably focus on hitting a baseball, in general."

Dean nodded, then kept reading. "We can take care of several of these in an afternoon. Baseball thing, too."

Jane stared at him; he didn't notice, and went on.

"I can show you how to change a tire. I grill a killer steak. And Sam knows how to play chess, he can get you started on that."

"Really?" she asked in a small voice. Jane was honestly taken aback, hearing him talk like he planned on her being around. Like he _welcomed_ it.

"Pssh. Yeah. Easy," Dean replied nonchalantly. He flipped a page, scanned further. "I ain't going to dance class with you, though."

"Oh, no - Andrew and I are working through that. Slowly. Veeeerrry slowly," Jane replied, going back to drinking more of her new favorite beer.

"What does that mean?"

Jane sighed, and gestured towards her legs. "I'm going through a wobbly period. And when I'm not wobbly, I'm swollen. Or both. Klutzy marshmallows suck at the waltz. Plus, Andrew's so busy, finding the time is always an issue."

Dean nodded again, going back to reading and sipping on his beer for a few moments. "'See what all the fuss with cigars is about'," he read aloud.

"Oh! Maybe you can help me with that, too," Jane exclaimed, and dug around in her bag.

Dean watched with an ever-evolving look on his face as she pulled out a small make-up bag. Unzipping it, she proceeded to remove a lipstick, a mascara, a compact, another lipstick, a small hairbrush, and finally a wrapped cigar. Tossing everything else back in, she looked back up at him with bright eyes.

"Got a light?"

"You are so weird."

"I know," she replied as she unwrapped the cigar, but then she hesitated. "Aren't you supposed to break off the end or something?"

As she looked to be readying to do so, Dean leaned over. "Give me that," he said, snatching it away. "You're going to break it in two." He chomped off the end, turned his head, and spit it deep into the darkness at the other end of the roof.

"I'm now adding 'Olympic-level spitting' to my list," Jane commented. She watched him pull out a silver lighter, fire it up, and hold it at the end of the cigar, puffing several times.

"Not bad," Dean said. He passed it to her. "But you do know you shouldn't inhale it, right?"

"I don't inhale anything but breathing treatments," Jane responded. "And it goes without saying that Andrew does _not_ need to hear about this, yeah?"

"Scout's honor."

"Okay, so here goes." Jane cleared her throat, licked her lips, and puffed. First her eyes narrowed, then her entire face grew pinched. She looked absolutely horrified and Dean tensed up, readying himself for another round of her turning blue. "Ugh... oh... oh _why_..." It was all she said as she handed it back to Dean, followed promptly by gulping down beer.

Dean stood and walked to the ledge across from them, laying the cigar down to let it go out, then sat back in his chair, picking up his bottle and asking, "Does that count?"

"The list committee votes yes. _Blerrrgh_ ," Jane answered with a shudder. She sunk further down into her chair and leaned her head back, sighing again, this time it out of contentment rather than annoyance. Her eyes moved slowly, taking in the scene above them. "Still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Dean followed suit, moving his own gaze skyward. It was a clear night, and it seemed like every star in the universe was visible. He snuck a glance at Jane. Were it not for the whirring of the pump jarring him back to reality, he could almost pretend they were just hanging out, talking about someone else's list of things to try before they died.

A tinkling melody cut into their stargazing.

She rolled her eyes and once more dug into her bag, plopping the pump on her lap, dug some more, then pulled out a phone.

"What the hell else you got in there?" Dean muttered.

"Ten bucks says this is... yup," she said upon seeing the number, then answered. "Hi... yes... no... no... it's not my first day, Andrew... I am currently kicked back with my feet up." Now she cut her eyes over to Dean. "Why would you think... of _course_ I'm staying hydrated."

Dean snickered as she hit mute and took a long pull off her beer as she continued to listen to Andrew, looking quite irked; after a few moments, Jane hit the mute again.

"Sam ran out to get me some and we're... okay, this is silly... I will. You, too." She hung up and tossed the phone unceremoniously back into her bag, saying to Dean, "See, I'm glad you got to witness that - there's being cautious and concerned, _then_ there's ---"

"Being a grandma?"

" _Yes!_ " she agreed emphatically. She got quiet for a moment, going back to looking at the stars before she continued. "He's made for the phrase 'too smart for their own good', you know? Nanny would say - 'That one just chews on something til all the flavor's gone'."

"Yeah, I know somebody kinda like that," Dean replied in a dry tone.

Jane chuckled, then said, "When I called him a genius earlier, I wasn't exaggerating. He doesn't exactly like to broadcast it. But he is."

"How'd you figure? I mean, besides playing the miracle worker for you."

"He's most at home in his lab. It isn't that he's not good with patients, he's great at it, and they love him. But he'd stay holed up in the lab 24/7 if he could. So I asked him once - why get the medical doctorate at all? And you know what he says?"

"Hmm?"

"'I thought it would be a nice supplement to the PhD.'" Jane's eyes narrowed and she made a bewildered sort of face. "Who in the world does that? Who goes to medical school as a _supplement?_ And he said it without a hint of ego, wasn't saying it to brag, just answering my question."

"Whoo," Dean exhaled, shaking his head a bit.

"Uh-huh."

Dean took a swig of his beer, thinking. Then he looked over at Jane, trying to speak carefully. "Do you ever feel like... get the impression that..."

"That I'm a very tall and talkative lab rat to him?" Jane finished, tilting her head back in his direction.

Dean shrugged.

"Eh, in some respects, maybe," she replied. "But at the end of the day, he doesn't want to figure this out to publish some paper or get credit or something. I think maybe it's as simple as, I'm his best friend and he isn't ready to let go."

_Forget baseball_ , he thought. _She keeps knocking 'em out of the park and she doesn't even know it._ Dean killed off the last mouthful of his beer and stood. "You done?"

Jane nodded, and he held out his hand for her empty bottle.

"Be right back," he told her, beginning to walk towards the stairwell.

Jane twisted around in her chair, watching him. "I thought - wasn't that was the last of it?"

Dean opened the door and looked back at her. "Thought you might want a whiskey this round."

"Sir, you are an angel."

Dean raised an eyebrow, shook his head. "Oh, no. No no no no no..." The denial faded as he went through the door, letting it close behind him.

Jane grinned and turned around. She picked up her book and flipped it to a page in the back that was dog-eared. Clicking her pen again, she drew a line through the final item on a different list she'd been working on diligently for years:

_Find my family  
_

.

* * *

.

Dean lumbered down several sets of stairs, around a corner, and all the way down a dusty hallway lit only by the moonlight cutting through a dirty window at the other end. Going through a door marked BASEMENT, he went down another small set of stairs, pulling out the master set of keys he and Sam had found long ago but rarely put to use. He then opened a door, an unmarked one, which deposited him into one of the bunker's back hallways.

He was not surprised to hear movement in the kitchen as he approached - Sam must've gotten back. Then Sam spoke, and Dean assumed he was on the phone. He briefly wondered if Andrew had called to verify what Jane had told him. But he was surprised to hear an additional voice, a very _familiar_ voice, and frowned, opting to linger by the doorway and listen.

"If you would consider allowing me to meet her---"

"It's not that I don't want you to meet her Cas, I _do_ , but not right now, okay? Can you just... can you just let me have this? Let _us_ have this? For a little while? _Please?_ "

That last part was said with such exasperation, such _desperation_ , Dean thought it almost sounded like Sam was on the verge of tears. Not okay. Especially since Castiel shouldn't have been there at _all_.

"Hey," he said with his typical brevity, coming through the door and walking over to the trashcan. He tossed in the beer bottles with a clatter. Then he casually walked over to a shelf, pulling down two small glasses and setting them on the table.

"Hey?" Sam repeated as a reply.

"You get her the stuff?" Dean asked him.

" _Hey?_ " Sam repeated - again - and this time with a _look_ tacked on.

But Dean had exited, this time through the doorway to the hall that was closer to the bedrooms, leaving Castiel and Sam to stare at each other. It wasn't long before he'd returned, a whiskey bottle in his hand. Sam's and Castiel's eyes followed him as he came to a stop by the table and unscrewed the cap.

Sam was still waiting for a response, and in vain. So he walked over to the opposite side of the table from where his brother stood. And then he placed himself in Dean's line of sight, crossing his arms for good measure.

Dean had started pouring but he stopped, glanced up. "You want some?"

"Cas was telling me an interesting story about you wanting him to look into someone who sounds an awful lot like Andrew," Sam said, ignoring the question.

Dean looked over at Castiel, then did a double-take, eyeing him - more accurately, the disguise - up and down. Without comment, he resumed pouring the drinks. When he was done, he capped the bottle and looked at Sam. "That a bad thing?"

"I happen to have gotten to know him pretty well. You could have just _asked_ me."

Dean considered this for a moment, nodded, and did so. "Okay, so why'd he go to medical school?"

"What?"

"Why'd he go to medical school? You guys are buds, you knew he was her best friend, her roommate, and now we know he's basically in control of your sister's life---"

" _Your_ sister, too."

"---which is all the more reason for you to wanna know his background. So, why?"

Sam's eyes narrowed. "I don't have a _clue_ , Dean, and you're changing the subject. Why drag Cas into a family matter---"

"Cas _is_ family," Dean reminded him gruffly.

"You know what I mean. A family matter that doesn't necessitate his... _expertise_. This isn't supernatural, this is blood tests and birth certificates and adoption records... things average people deal with all the time."

And then brevity flew out the door.

"Speaking of his - his 'expertise', yeah? - I'm curious," Dean began, turning toward Castiel. "Back during one of the many, _many_ periods that's been hit-or-miss, is my memory serving me correctly when I think you were on the 'miss' side of things the time you almost got Sam killed? Out in some woods when his arm nearly came off? And you peaced out before giving anybody any helpful information?"

Dean's voice was dripping with contempt, and Castiel felt the sting.

"I assumed that Sam told you about that," Castiel answered. "It was when we were looking for you, when you---"

"Oh, I _know_ what you were doing. And I don't give a rat's _ass_ what you thought he told me, that was _still_ a conversation you and I needed to have, and you _know_ it." Dean shook his head, looked away, and he picked up the glasses, but immediately set them back down. "Just... you're unbelievable," he went on, now looking at and speaking to Sam again.

A touch of a glare lit on Sam's face, and he felt himself start to grind his teeth as Dean went on.

"You have the stones to stand here bitching at me about being secretive after tonight. After _years_ of sitting on this. I haven't even _begun_ to process how you managed _not_ to tell me, through _everything_ that's happened since you knew about her. I _never_ would have kept her a secret from you!"

Sam's neck flushed. "Never? You want to start listing things, Dean? We can start listing things. But you don't wanna go down that road."

"Excuse me, but where exactly _is_ she?" Castiel interjected, and it jolted Sam momentarily out of his anger.

Glancing down at the glasses, then back at the trashcan where Dean had thrown away the bottles, something seemed to register with him. "Are you getting her drunk?" Sam asked Dean incredulously.

Dean made a disgusted face. "Am I _what?_ " A pause, then a huff of a wry chuckle. "Well not with a beer and a whiskey, unless she's a real teetotaler."

"Why are you even - where is she? Is she lying down in one of the bedrooms?"

"No. She's up on the roof."

Sam's eyes got huge.

"She's _where?!_ "  
.

* * *

.

Jane had gotten fidgety not long after Dean left, so she'd slowly moved to a sitting position and, after waiting a moment to let her body adjust, pushed herself up. Picking up the pump in one hand and the lantern in the other, she steadied herself and then walked around the back of the chair. She stood still for a moment, getting her bearings.

"If the stairs lead there," she muttered to herself, walking forward slowly, then turning, "then the kitchen would be..."

Jane continued on in a slightly meandering path as she toured the rooftop, visualizing the floor plan of the bunker to the best of her knowledge. And she smiled when she spotted it - a raised area of concrete about three or four feet high, a long rectangle jutting upwards, almost running the entire width of the roof. As she walked closer and held out the lantern, a bit of its light glinted off of what she surmised was glass on its top. An unconventional skylight, to be sure.

It must have run completely through the building, otherwise she couldn't imagine how anyone at a telescope in an underground bunker could've ever seen the stars. A tree next to the bunker had grown to an impressive height, and it clearly had not been tended to in many years - more than one long branch, heavy with leaves, hung over most of the glass and would've obstructed the view. But view of _what_ , because if this _was_ their path to the stars, it wouldn't have been of the whole sky - just a portion of it - and she was officially curious as to the _why_ of it all.

Jane's thoughts were interrupted when she once more heard the stairwell door open and close behind her.

"I think I might've figured out something, but I don't know how the power plant people never noticed, and we'll have to ask Sam if he knows why---" Jane had cut herself off because when she turned, it was not Dean who stood before her - it was a man she'd never seen before.

"I apologize, I've disturbed you. I was just looking for Dean." The man walked to her and held out his hand. "Miss...?"

"Um, Jane. Just Jane," she replied hesitantly. Setting the lantern at her feet to free up her hand, she accepted his, adding on, "Mr....?"

"Hello, just Jane. I'm Crowley. Just Crowley."

He smiled and Jane smiled in return, albeit timidly. "Dean will be back in just a second," she said.

"Excellent! I won't keep him from you long, merely wanted to check in."

Now that he was closer, she could see he was impeccably dressed. Clearly a very expensive suit, and she knew from Andrew's borderline snobbery about shoes that the wingtips Crowley wore were easily three months of her salary. He didn't look like he'd be in Dean's line of work, but she asked anyway, wondering if this was the friend Dean was to have met earlier in the evening.

"Do you work together?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"I think I wrecked his work schedule this weekend," Jane admitted. "He didn't know I was going to be in town, so I'm sorry if I caused any disruption for you, too."

"No, no! Not at all," Crowley replied. "You're a friend of his, I take it?"

"Of Sam's, mostly," she answered, but didn't continue as one of her knees tried to give out and she uttered gasp of surprise.

Crowley immediately took hold of her arm and helped her navigate to the chair.

"Thank you," said Jane. She noted him eyeing the pump and tubes, and was grateful he didn't ask anything. "Would you like to sit down while you wait?"

"No, like I say, I won't be here long," Crowley said, moving away from her to lean against the ledge in front of the chairs, folding his hands in front of him.

Jane nodded, bringing her legs up to rest once more on the overturned pot. She had to admit to herself she was starting to feel weak; the trek up the stairs had probably not been a great decision. She could only imagine Andrew's reaction if he found out.

"You know, I've never had occasion to be up here," Crowley commented. "It's... pleasant."

But he had an expression of distaste on his face that made Jane grin. "Not exactly a sun porch, huh?"

"It could certainly do with some renovation," Crowley replied with a grin of his own. "Do the boys come up here often?"

Jane shrugged.

"You're clearly a good influence on that pair of basement-dwellers. I do hope you'll continue to visit---" another glance at the pump "---whenever you're feeling up to it, of course."

"Maybe. We'll see."

Crowley glanced around, pushed himself away from the ledge. He walked away from her, but not far, gestured generically as he spoke. "You know, not that anyone will be brunching up here anytime soon, but in the daytime, it will get a fair amount of light. A few trees may need to come down, but..." Crowley trailed off and looked back over to her.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I was just thinking, it would be lovely to see it converted to a rooftop garden."

Jane sat up a little straighter. Crowley gloated internally. He had her attention. Moving back to his station and resuming his leaning, he nudged the overturned terracotta pot with the toe of his shoe. "Seems someone may've given it a go at one point," he commented.

"Do you have much of a green thumb?" she asked.

"I've kept a few weeds alive in my day," he replied, and she chuckled.

"Well, it's a goal of mine. My apartment doesn't have a balcony, so I tried one of those window gardens - you know those? That you hang on the sill, so it sits outdoors?"

"Luck not on your side?"

Jane shook her head. "Managed to murder a cactus, too. May they rest in peace." Leaving it at that, she looked around the rooftop, began nibbling on a thumbnail, seemingly lost in thought.

What Jane couldn't have known at the time was that after he'd sent away his demons and arrived on the scene himself, Crowley had been watching the bunker from atop a small hill on the other side of the wheat, pondering. When two figures had emerged onto the roof, he'd been pleasantly surprised. When he'd realized it was Dean and the woman about whom he'd been told, he was properly incentivized.

It was then that the king-turned-kingpin opted to take a chance on something he'd often considered, but dismissed as improbable long ago.

The blueprints of the power plant had been in his associates' - and later, his - possession for quite a long time; the Men of Letters hadn't been nearly as stealthy as they imagined. Contractors and construction workers and county clerks were easily bought. Or swayed by other means. Though a complete layout of the bunker was on no obtainable record, public or private, that any of Crowley's investigators past or present had been able to find, it didn't really matter - the warding made it a moot point.

While it was true that Crowley had been in the bunker on many an occasion, and he'd observed the various sigils in tile work and on doorways, the smattering of devil's traps, it had always been by will of the Winchesters. Imprisoned or summoned, it was as if the bunker was a living thing that somehow _knew_ his presence was sanctioned. And putting himself aside, it's not as if the bunker had vomited a demonized Dean onto the surface at first contact, an entity who, Crowley had begrudgingly accepted, was more powerful on the whole than he.

The seeming fickleness of the bunker aside, the demon collective had erred on the side of caution. All had long assumed the warding extended beyond simply the threshold, whether by the means of the Men of Letters, the Winchesters, or another member of their motley gang of monster squads. The risk of guessing how far it extended into the building under which it was hidden did not exactly outweigh a potential reward.

This, however, was a different situation.

After it appeared the roof's visitors were seated and not going anywhere for the time being, Crowley steeled himself and took the risk: he blinked himself in. He'd reappeared on a landing just on the other side of the stairwell wall. Feeling no ill effects, he crept up the steps and stood by the door to the roof, listening. So the girl was unwell; _quite_ unwell, by the sound of it. It might prove to be a setback, and Crowley wondered if perhaps the man his minions spotted was actually the one he sought.

Crowley had pulled out his phone, preparing a text to instruct his second in command to ensure the complete identity and background of the man was confirmed by the time he returned. Then he tacked on an _or face the consequences_ for good measure. He rolled his eyes as he typed at all the talk of lists - but then he perked up. He could possibly use some of this information, due diligence on the girl and whatnot. After all, Dean certainly seemed more invested in her than in the man. And the situation necessitated that no stone be left unturned.

So when he'd heard Dean coming towards the door, he blinked onto the roof, behind the raised concrete entry to the stairwell. And he'd waited while she sat quietly, scribbled in a book, then eventually stood and began to walk around. Crowley had taken the opportunity to make his way to the door, letting it open and close, as if he'd simply arrived in a conventional way.

But his thoughts, as well as Jane's, would have to wait because just then, the door opened. Dean and Sam came onto the roof, speaking in harsh whispers to one another, but their conversation came to a full stop. Pure shock at the sight before them - Jane, mere feet away from not just any demon, but Crowley - immediately registered on their faces.

Jane looked over her shoulder. "Hey, you're back! Look who I found," she said, pointing to Crowley.

"Surprise, boys," he said to them, a slow grin snaking across his lips.

"You okay?" Dean asked Jane in a slightly pinched tone, and Sam immediately went and stood by her side. 

Dean kept his eyes trained on Crowley, but Jane didn't seem to notice, looking up at Sam with a smile.

"Mr. Crowley was nice enough to forgive me for stealing Dean away from him," she explained.

"Oh?" Sam said, forcing his face to relax a bit for her sake.

Dean's eyes practically bore through Crowley as he said, "How _nice_."

"I was just about to tell the lovely Jane here about an associate of mine who happens to be an absolute _devil_ when it comes to greenhouses and flowers and the like," Crowley told them. "I could easily have him come over and make this place a little more presentable." He turned his gaze back to Jane as he continued. "That is, assuming your visits are frequent enough to maintain a modest rooftop paradise?"

Sam's eyes shot from Crowley to Dean and back again, saying,"That's... a real... a _real_ something else of an idea and all, Crowley. But no thanks."

"It's such a kind offer, truly, but I don't live close enough," Jane added, following Sam's lead. "Besides, I just couldn't afford something like that."

"Oh, you misunderstand me - it would be my pleasure to incur all the costs," Crowley replied. Now he looked back at Dean. "A reward of sorts for Dean, who's been such an exemplary employee. Any friend of his, and whatnot."

"You ready to head back downstairs?" Sam asked Jane quietly, bending to pick up her bag and then helping her to stand before getting an answer.

Her brow creased as she whispered, "Do they not get along?"

"They just have lots of history," Sam whispered back. "We should probably leave them to talk."

Jane nodded, and turned to Crowley, saying, "It was really nice meeting you, but I'm afraid I need to go lie down." She smiled, cut her eyes briefly at Sam by way of an excuse.

Crowley smiled back and said, "I understand completely. I look forward to the next time we meet."

He bent at the waist, capping his goodbye off with a small bow; Jane blinked at that, a tiny _whoa_ slipping out under her breath as they walked by a statue-still Dean.

"I'll be right behind you," he told them, seeing a _look_ from Sam out of the corner of his eye. Dean gave them time to make their way down at least the first set of stairs, never letting his stern gaze at the demon slip, waiting to pounce. But Crowley beat him to it and broke the silence.

"Charming gal. I can see why you're entranced. You and Moose ought to have a big ol' bunker brawl over who gets her."

"You wanna explain how you managed to be up here?"

Crowley had turned, walking away from Dean, trailing a finger along the ledge as he went, ignoring the question. "Pity about the being-on-death's-door thing, though. What exactly is wrong with the poor creature? I couldn't tell from just a touch."

Dean remained silent, crossing his arms.

Crowley shrugged, looking back to him once more. "Perhaps you two can put in a good word for her with the reapers."

"If you're not going to answer me, then leave - or I'm gonna help you off this roof, and it ain't gonna involve stairs."

"Oh, _Dean_. You're not going to go tossing me about, or you'd have tried by now. You're far more interested in why I'm here in the first place, chatting up your darling new lady friend." Crowley planted a smirk on his face, the one he knew Dean would be all too happy to slap right off.

"Hope you enjoyed it. Won't happen again."

"Hmmm. And _my_ hope is she gets home all safe and sound. You three have a good night."

With that, Crowley was gone.

Dean's blood ran cold at that last part as he pounded down the stairs. Sam was going to have to be on make-sure-Jane's-distracted duty while he tried to figure out how to extend the warding to the entire power plant, not to mention work out what the hell they could do about her apartment when they took her home.

Meanwhile, Crowley had reappeared back on the small hill where he'd began, and placed a phone call.

"I have something for you," he said. As he spoke, he removed the handkerchief from his front suit pocket, shaking out the folds. Then he gingerly reached into his pants pocket, pulled out the cigar Dean had left lying on the ledge. He wrapped it in the silk fabric, covering it completely, limiting his touch to only the middle, careful to avoid the end.

"Full profiles... yes, two - there'll be one male and one female. I'm most interested in the female profile. Any abnormalities, specifically. Soon as you can."  
.

* * *

.

Back in the bunker, Dean didn't have to worry long about Jane being distracted. She had taken her medication, and after several rounds of yawns, took Sam up on his offer to nap in one of the spare rooms until her infusion completed. Once he had her settled, Sam gently shut the door, then walked rapidly to Dean's room to find him sitting on the bed, reading.

"Where'd Cas go, do you know?" Sam asked.

"Left a note saying he'd gone back to the hospital, finish out the night so Andrew won't get suspicious next time he sees him," Dean responded, not looking up from the book in his lap. Several more books and his laptop were strewn around him, a few having apparently been discarded and tossed onto the floor.

Sam bit his tongue - they didn't have time to argue about that or about Castiel right now - at least he could see by the material that he and Dean were back in step for the moment. "Do we have to be _in_ her apartment to make something decent work?" he asked. "That might be a problem."

Dean nodded. "The most effective would be, sure, but there's a couple things we can do outside."

"What was Crowley up to?"

"Got me."

"Does he know who she is?"

"Don't think so... you gonna help me with this?"

Sam sat on the bed, leaning over with his forearms on his thighs, cracking his knuckles. Then after a moment or two, he sat up straight, and with a smile that wasn't nearly one of joy. "Ha. I'm so stupid, you know? One night, just _one night_ of---"

"What, normal?" Dean cut in, looking up from his book, his stern expression reflecting what he said next. "Yeah, you _are_ pretty stupid to expect anything normal in our lives. Big props for dragging a sweet kid like Jane into it."

Sam's own expression hardened. "You're a real jerk, you know that?"

"I do know that," Dean replied evenly, head lowered, already back to flipping pages.

Sam closed his eyes momentarily, swallowed down what was now absolutely seething anger, and picked up Dean's laptop to aid in the searching.  
.

* * *

THE NEXT WEEK  
MONDAY AFTERNOON

.

"I'm really pleased to hear all this - I always knew you could find them."

Jane beamed. "You have no idea how happy I am, I haven't felt this good in... well _you_ know better than anybody. It's been awhile."

Jane's psychiatrist made a few notes in the open file folder that rested on the clipboard he held against the arm of his chair, then leaned over to his desk, picking up a prescription pad, responding as he scribbled. "I still want you taking this, though. But we can definitely talk decreasing the dosage the next few visits, if things keep going the way they are. Still no side-effects, no weird interactions?"

Jane shook her head. "Nope, none at all."

"Andrew'd said he changed something in your regimen last we spoke, and you know me - careful, careful, careful."

"I know. What would I do without my favorite doctor?"

"Oh, no," he replied with a chuckle, tearing the prescription off the pad and handing it to her. "Don't start lying to me now."

"You love it."

"You're right - and what ol' Andy doesn't know won't hurt him. Now when are you seeing those brothers of yours again?"

"This weekend," Jane replied, tucking the prescription into her bag. "I am told there is grilling out in my future. Barring any work coming up for Dean - I've already told them they better cancel if that happens again. But Sam said he's coming to get me, anyway."

"Good! Take him up on it. Andrew still treating you okay? Anything I need to kick his ass over?"

"The ideal roommate, he's hardly ever there."

"My undergraduate self envies you. We made it out of that dorm room with our friendship intact, but just barely." The chime of the doctor's watch alarm dinged. "That'll do it," he told Jane, closing the folder. "You've survived another round with me."

Jane stood, as did he. She started to walk towards the door, then paused. Turning, she hugged him tightly, saying, "Thank you. I'm not talking about just now, but for everything. Leaving your old practice, moving out here to be with us. When I think about it all... you just mean the world to me, Dr. G, and I don't tell you nearly enough."

He hugged her back, and when they pulled apart, he took her hands and gave them a squeeze. "Well, don't tell the others, but you _are_ my favorite patient."

Jane grinned. "Sure, sure. What they don't know won't hurt 'em."

"And I know we're in the office, but dollface, for the five _millionth_ time, puh- _lease_...

.

.

.

...will you just call me Gabriel?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	3. Three Can Keep a Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More information is gathered, deceptions are discovered and theories abound; an old friend of the Winchesters is called upon for their assistance; Crowley launches his own investigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author note: Just FYI, there won't necessarily be a "THEN" or a"NOW" - a.k.a. when the letter writer is speaking directly to the reader - every time because this was originally laid out in parts & outlines vs. digestible chapters. Carry on - Nash]

* * *

  _"Truth exists; only lies have to be invented."  
― Lucy Maud Montgomery: author,  The Selected Journals Of L.M. Montgomery, Vol. 3_

* * *

 

LEBANON, KANSAS  
MEN OF LETTERS BUNKER

.

"I don't... you're still... you gotta stick your butt out more."

Sam's face registered more than a little confusion hearing this as he got out of the car.

As seemed par for the course in recent past, Sam had won errand duty again. It was the weekend, finally - after the week he and Dean had, they were both looking forward to Jane visiting. Going beyond their typical hunting drama, it had been tense ever since the weekend prior.

They'd not discussed the mission Dean had assigned Castiel - who'd been largely absent for the most part - nor speculated on Crowley's designs. They opted to keep busy, just stick to the details of the case at hand. But as the weekend crept closer, talk of their plans began to happen and they started to speak with more ease. They'd even gone on a shopping run together the night before, after wrapping up the case sooner than anticipated. By the time Sam had picked up Jane and brought her back to the bunker early Saturday afternoon, he and Dean had fallen into their old, comfortable rhythm. Mostly for her sake, it seemed, though each privately hoped it would somehow linger after she'd gone.

Sam had pulled around the side and parked on the edge of the large open area, between the unkempt rows of wheat and the building, rather than bother with a trek via the garage. Exiting the car, he walked over to the beach chairs and a long-forgotten round coffee table they'd brought out from one of the storage rooms. Sam was happy the weather hadn't turned too cold to be outdoors, and they had managed to assemble a nice spread of food. Plopping down a bag of sodas and bottled water, he noted the steaks Dean had marinating overnight were already on the grill.

Dean and Jane were off to the side, Dean with glove and ball, Jane not too far in front of him with a bat, positioning and then re-positioning herself into an awkward stance.

"Is this better?" she asked.

"Super - now quit hitting like a girl."

Jane straightened up and raised an eyebrow. "Then you stop throwing like one."

Dean rolled his eyes and huffed. "You know what I mean. Just stand like I told you, watch the ball, and pop it right back up. I'll catch it. And then we'll do it again. That's how this works. But you have to make with the hitting, see?"

"Quit lobbing potatoes at me!"

"You're not even hitting _those!_ "

Sam didn't bother hiding his amusement as he walked over to them.

"Will you please deal with her?" Dean asked him.

Now Jane rolled _her_ eyes, one hand up on her hip, the other staying on the old wooden bat as she brought it down to touch the ground and gripped the end, leaning. She looked at Sam and shook her head, announcing, "I'm not letting him teach me anything else."

"Okay, c'mere," Sam said, coming up beside her. "Show me."

She tried to mimic what Dean had taught her earlier, but judging by Dean's expression and the way he took off his glove, letting it and the baseball he held plop to the ground, Sam gathered that she wasn't even coming close.

"Move your hands kind've... yeah," Sam said, adjusting her hand position on the bat. Then he moved behind her and tilted her shoulders so she was angled away from Dean a bit more. "And sorta..." He bent his knees and gently knocked into the back of her legs, so her own knees weren't locked into position.

"Oh, I get it," Jane said with an up-and-down movement, a slow rotation of the bat, getting comfortable and easing into it. She looked pointedly at Dean, saying, "Thank you, _Sam_. That was very helpful."

Dean was opening his mouth to reply but Sam was already walking towards him, motioning for him to back up.

"Okay, and you come over here some more," he said.

Dean gave him a _look_. "She's not gonna do it."

Sam glanced back at Jane. There were a few baseballs on the ground at various distances behind her. "Have you made any contact with the ball at all?" he asked.

"Yes!" Jane said, not looking at them but still concentrating on keeping her swing level.

"And tell him how far it went," Dean chimed in.

Jane made a little shrugging motion as well as she could, while slowly swinging and now adding a bit of a pivot.

" _Once_. It went about three feet in front of her. That was the furthest it got, and only because a breeze kicked up," Dean answered for her.

"Why aren't you---" Sam started to ask her, when Jane paused in her practice and sighed.

"What if I hit it too hard and it broke his nose or something?" she said, which made Dean laugh so hard he doubled over and grabbed his thighs.

"Oh, oh, you gotta stop," he gasped, straightening up again.

Sam ignored him, picking up the glove and motioning for him to walk back further.

"Fine," Dean said, holding up his hands. "I surrender." Then he bent and picked up the baseball, following Sam.

"Okay, Jane. I'm back here to catch it, so really let it rip, alright?" Sam called over to her, and she nodded. And in a lowered voice, he said to Dean, "Don't drill one at her, but let her try, huh?"

"You're the boss," replied Dean.

Jane was all concentration as she watched Dean carefully. Petulant, Dean did not bother to tell her to get ready. Instead he broke eye contact with her, glanced back at Sam with a slightly mischievous look, then turned and threw a fairly fast overhand pitch.

Sam felt himself reflexively raise the glove and start to back up when he saw her forward foot lift off the ground, followed by the elevation of her back elbow, and sure enough by the time the ball reached her, Jane had put her entire body into the force of her swing.

_THWOCK_

The line drive sailed so close to Dean's head, he actually felt the push of air. Sam's reflexes, still on point, allowed him to drop to the ground before it would've hit him square in the chest. The ball gained no more height, but it didn't seem close to losing speed, until...

_CRACK_

Dean's eyes immediately closed.

Jane let the bat slip from her fingers, bringing one hand after the other up to cover her mouth.

Sam rose slowly from the ground. He looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened. "Ahhh... ha... ha... ha," he stammered, looking to Jane, then back again, a nervous smile coming to his face.

Sam slowly walked over to the Impala. Jane scurried over to join him, and they both stooped, putting them on eye-level with the almost perfectly round hole in the driver's side window.

"Tell me," Dean said, having not yet looked.

"It's not that bad," Sam answered truthfully. If he was very careful, he thought he could probably open the door gingerly enough so that glass didn't get everywhere in the car's interior or down in the door.

So Dean slowly turned, looking mostly at the ground, and walked over.

"It could've been worse," Jane began to point out. "It could've---"

The splintering sound cut her off, and the window shattered the rest of the way, falling in its entirety inside the car. The three of them stood and stared at the glassless window in silence for what felt like an eternity.

"Sorry about that hit like a girl thing earlier," Dean said flatly, still staring straight ahead.

Jane, doing the same, replied, "Sorry I finally _did_."

Sam felt a grin come to his face and as he glanced down the line, he could tell Dean was fighting one by the crinkles beginning to appear around his eyes.

Another stretch of silence.

"You, uh... you brought peach cobbler, you said?" Dean asked Jane.

"Mmm-hmm. Think we should bust that out before the steaks?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Okay."

Then Dean suddenly sprung into action. "Oh, crap!" he said, hustling to the grill. Flipping the steaks, he saw all three were charred beyond salvation. The grunting and cursing under his breath started almost immediately.

"And, um, how much cobbler did you bring?" Sam asked Jane as they walked over.

"Aw, we can do better than that," Jane replied, sitting in one of the chairs. She pointed to the cooler Sam had helped her carry down the apartment stairs when he picked her up. "Look."

Sam had assumed that the reason for the larger cooler was to house the dessert she'd insisted on bringing, as well as perhaps her medication. But now as he opened it, Sam looked over at Dean with a smile. "Our hero," he commented, pulling out buns and hot dogs, tossing the latter to Dean, who then shot a _look_  at Jane.

"Not that I'm looking a gift horse in the mouth---" Dean began.

Jane made a horse-like _pppfffftt_ sound.

"---but your lack of faith in us hurts my feelings."

"You'll get over it," Sam declared, sitting down in the chair next to Jane, as Dean opened the package and started tossing the meat onto the grill.

"Contingency plans do not indicate a lack of trust," Jane told Dean.

"Well I'll have to get that stitched on a pillow."

Jane pulled her notebook from her bag. Sam watched her cross off both the baseball item and the grilling item. "Really?" he asked.

She glanced over at the ruined steaks Dean had laid on a paper plate. "There's a lesson somewhere in there."

"Yeah, and here's your lesson on changing tires: Triple-A," Dean said over his shoulder.

Sam and Jane looked at each other and snickered, then she crossed off that item on the list.

In no time at all, they were eating their meal, and towards the end of it, Dean looked to Jane, saying, "Hey, a friend of mine is going to come by, that okay?"

Sam glanced up but Dean wouldn't make eye contact with him.

Jane nodded. "Yeah, of course. There's still plenty of food, if they're hungry."

"Nah, probably not. Just didn't wanna surprise you." Dean took a swig of soda before finally meeting Sam's eye. "It'll probably be later," he continued. "Said he needed to drop something off, I told him to come by before he went to work tonight."

_Castiel_. So Sam's suspicions were right - Dean _had_ kept the angel busy with spying on Andrew. Which, in turn, made him wonder how much spying they had been doing on Jane. Which, in turn, pissed him off.

Jane thankfully picked up on none of this. She had finished her food, and picked up a plastic grocery bag, tossing a few empty cans and used paper plates into it. "I'll be right back - y'all need anything from inside?" she asked.

"I'm good," said Dean.

"Maybe the brush and dustpan?" Sam suggested, sticking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Impala.

"In the kitchen?"

"Yeah, you should see it hanging near the garbage can. But if it's not, it may be in the bathroom."

"No problem, headed there anyway," said Jane, then walked towards the building.

After he was sure she was out of earshot, Sam's mood changed as he looked back at Dean.

"Go ahead," Dean told him.

"Why?" Sam asked, keeping it simple.

"Because we need to know why she was off our radar - _everyone's_ radar - for thirty some-odd years. That doesn't nag at you?"

"You _really_ think I haven't thought about that?"

"I think you haven't been thinking much at _all_."

"Well _I_ think you're looking to pin this on Andrew somehow - that he's lying about something, or that he somehow had something to do with hiding her - except there's no reason to think so."

"You do a background check? I mean, _our_ brand of background check? On either of them?"

"Yeah. On her. Back when she first came clean. Well, best I could, on my own."

That last part had flown out of Sam's mouth before he even realized it. Maybe part of him wanted to make Dean feel as lousy as he did. Maybe part of him was still waiting on apologies he'd never get, not for that summer's disappearing act or the one after they'd dealt with the otherworldly nightmare. Maybe getting one for spying on Jane would soothe the wounds for a time. Though Sam knew odds were Dean would say _shove it_ over _sorry_.

But Dean had, against form, not become as irritable as Sam would've expected; instead, he was calmly folding a paper towel at one corner into little triangles.

Sam sighed. "I knew what he did for a living, I knew where he and Jane had moved from, where they _used_ to work, where he works _now_..."

"How deep did you dig?"

"I called around, like I was checking references. The HR departments, old landlords. All confirmed."

Dean nodded slowly, then looked up. "Well, Nancy Drew, not that it's much, but we got more than you did."

Sam's brow instantly creased.

"What do you mean?"

 .

* * *

.

Crowley walked into one of the larger rooms in his loft that served as his cabal's current headquarters, clapping his hands together a few times.

"Speak to me," he commanded brusquely, and the minion who'd acted as his attaché in Monaco rushed over nervously.

"I think you'll be pleased this time, sir," he said.

"Well, the line of succession has landed on you, has it?" said Crowley. He walked purposefully to the large bulletin board on a wheeled stand that seemed to be the center of intel in the room. "Your predecessors also thought I'd be pleased." Crowley looked pointedly at his newest second. "So? _Dazzle_ me."

The minion gulped. The handful of demons scattered about the room shared glances, quietly closing laptops and gathering up papers, walking towards, and then out, the door. The minion noticed his lack of back-up and began to stammer. "Uh... well, I know your distaste for long reports... I... I thought perhaps visual aids---"

"Go on."

The minion walked to the board and started pointing at various items as he spoke. "The woman - she was formally adopted by Nancy Ann and Earl Overturf at five years of age. A housewife and a farmer, living in the small Alabama town of---"

"Don't care."

"Sure, sure, of course," the minion replied with a nervous smile. He moved to pointing to a different area of the board, where a yearbook page was pinned next to several photographs of what Crowley presumed was the Overturf farm and a copy of Jane's adoption paperwork.

"Private adoption, wasn't easy to get, sir, but an A.W. Ripley signed over custody. We haven't had any luck locating information on the lawyer or the firm listed." The minion grew even more nervous, but Crowley did not comment, so he continued. "She lived there until she was 17 or 18, all her schooling, some part-time jobs, didn't get into any trouble, no real extracurriculars. But!"

Now the minion moved away from the board, to point at a small stack of file folders on the nearby table.

"She'd been in-and-out of the hospital as a kid, frequent visits to the pediatrician, a few times it looked like she had to do parts of several school years at home. But she ended up graduating with a pretty decent GPA."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Are you arriving at a point?"

The minion nodded. "Yes, sir, yessir," he said, going back to the board and pointing at another sheet of paper pinned next to a transcript. "She got accepted to several colleges, ended up going to this one, in Tennessee. Lived there up until about four or five years ago."

Crowley stepped up to the board, looking at the university transcript, then lifting up a paper also bearing the school's name that was part of a small stack pinned together. Invoices. After glancing past the line items to the bottom, then again on the next sheet, then again on the third, he didn't bother continuing. "Who paid for all this?" he asked. "Certainly not the poor farmer and his wife."

"Well, this is where we think we found something that may interest you," the minion answered with the tiniest hint of a smile. Crowley did not return it, and the minion cleared his throat. "Uh, well, she qualified for a financial aid, but it wasn't a lot. Worked as a nurse's aide part time throughout, then after she graduated, looks like she and some of her classmates from nursing school were roommates in a small house near the medical center where they'd all gotten jobs. Passed her licensing exam on the first try. Always got real good performance reviews."

"So?"

"So then all of a sudden, she starts getting into debt." The minion once more moved down the board, pointing to more pinned papers. "Credit cards, bouncing checks, stopped making payments on her school loans, on the medical debts that were left from when she was a kid. First time in her life, looks like. Stopped working at the hospital. Moved out to an apartment in a not-so-great part of the city. And she'd gotten into grad school, but never enrolled." The minion moved down the board again. "But then her address changed to a condo in an upscale area. And the debt, it all disappeared, and her bank account had a $100,000 wire go into it."

Crowley glanced at a bank statement with the wire transfer highlighted. "From _whom?_ "

"We're still working on that, sir."

Crowley pondered this information for a moment. Then he waved his hand in a _continue_ gesture, and the minion went on.

"Her tax returns started saying 'medical researcher' after that, and then her address changes to Kansas, around 70 miles away from the Winchesters. Like you ordered, we've been staked out, and the only places she's been is an office building nearby and to the bunker."

"She doesn't have a vehicle?"

"No, sir. We've seen her in the Winchesters' car, and a ride service took her to the office building. Based on what he carries into the apartment, the man she lives with seems to do the grocery shopping, the dry cleaners, the pharmacy, the---"

"And tell me about him."

The minion was now clearly very nervous, wiping sweaty palms against the side of his slacks.

" _Well?_ " Crowley prompted.

The minion reached up, flipping the board to the other side. There were several photographs with dates on sticky notes beside each, all of the back of a tall blonde man's head, walking to the outside stairwell of an apartment building, sometimes carrying bags, sometimes nothing. And not a one had a clear shot of his face, so that meant no circulating a photo to their network, no facial recognition, absolutely nothing of use.

The two most recent photos consisted of a blurry shot of him entering the car the scouts had seen at the bunker with a phone held to his ear. The second was of the rear of said car, as it left the apartment complex. The rest of the board was empty.

Crowley stared at the photos, then leveled a positively scathing gaze at the minion, who started to babble.

"Her name is the one on the rental agreement and on all the utilities, the payments come from her checking account. The car - well, we're still working on tracing who's running the company it's leased to. Who the parent company even _is_. There seems to be a ton of subsidiaries, there's the LLCs, and the DBAs, and the shells inside of other shells, and---"

Crowley reached up and ripped the most recent photo of the man from its pushpin. "This could be _anybody_ ," he bellowed, tossing it to the floor; the minion jumped, startled at the outburst. Then Crowley jabbed a finger at the photo of the car. "Where did he go? To work? To the theater? To a strip club? To the _moon_?"

"They followed him, sir, several times, but he lost them. He's apparently very evasive."

"You don't say," Crowley replied, readying to wring the minion's neck, approaching the underling ominously, when he caught sight of the photo he'd thrown to the floor out of the corner of his eye. Picking it up and looking at it again, Crowley asked, "The phone. What about their phone calls, their internet usage, social media?"

"There's no online presence for either, that we've been able to find---"

"None?!"

"---and, well, sir, the techs thought they possibly detected wi-fi, but we can't manage to penetrate... they couldn't... our techs have been working on it... they say it's like nothing they've ever dealt with."

"So why not go through the service? Find some cubicle grunt to possess?" Crowley responded through gritted teeth, but it quickly turned to bellowing. "DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU LOT HOW TO DO EVERYTHING?!"

The minion winced again. "That's the thing - there's nothing connected to that apartment, we can't figure out how---"

" _WHAT?!_ "

Now Crowley was right in the minion's face.

"Theydon'tseemtobeusinganydataservices," said the minion, in a panicked stream.

Crowley's stance eased back to its prior state, his expression returning to one of deep thought. Reaching up, he flipped the board back to the side with Jane's information. Looking for the most recent bank statement, he plucked it from the board, running his finger down the list of transactions, scanning and pacing.

His miscreants were right - no cellular carrier, no cable company, no internet provider, nothing of the sort. Even demons had to utilize these things, else they'd constantly be communicating through blood and bowls like it was the dark ages. Crowley's inner demon was old, yes, but certainly not old-fashioned. Tossing the paper on the table, Crowley clasped his hands behind his back and kept slowly pacing, back and forth, as several moments passed. Then suddenly he stopped. He turned on his heel, facing the minion.

"This man has no trail to follow whatsoever?" he clarified.

"Sir, we can't even confirm his last name," the minion answered helplessly.

And a slow smile emerged on Crowley's face. He took two big strides, coming right into the minion's personal space one more, only this time Crowley gripped his face and planted two kisses, one on each cheek, then clapped him on his shoulders. The minion stood in shocked silence.

"This," Crowley said, pointing to the board, "this is good. This is very good." He chuckled. "Very, _very_ good. Keep it up."

As Crowley turned to walk away, the minion said, "I don't- sir, what... am I..."

Crowley spun around, still smiling. "And have the scouts keep watching her."

"And the man?"

"No need. You've already found the answer, my boy."

The minion was clearly confused. "But... but there's... there's nothing!"

" _Exactly._ "

.

* * *

.

Castiel had arrived directly into Dean's room, as he knew from Dean that the door would be closed and there'd be no risk of being spotted. He glanced around for Dean's laptop - there were pictures on his phone that he wanted to load for Dean and Sam to see - but to no avail. So the angel opened the door, heading towards the library. Finding the laptop, Castiel unplugged it and began to walk back to Dean's room when he ran smack into Jane, who had just come down the hall from the bathroom carrying a dustpan.

"Hey, you must be Dean's friend," she said cheerfully. "They thought you wouldn't be able to make it by this early."

"Y-yes. Hi. Hello. Jane?"

"Yeah, it's nice to meet you... Cas?" Jane asked, after a glance away from his face, to his chest, and back.

"What?" Castiel blurted out, caught off guard.

The sides of her mouth turned up and she raised her eyebrows, pointing.

Castiel looked down - he was still wearing his name tag and scrubs, having come from the overnight shift... and his other errand.

"Oh, right," he said, smiling a little to play it off.

"Don't worry, I remember those days. Overnight shifts are... oh my gosh!" Jane exclaimed, now looking closer at the badge. "I bet you know my best friend, he's a doctor at your ER! Andrew? Tall blonde guy? Kinda quiet and dorky?"

"Well, I'm still new there---"

"He works mostly overnight shifts. I bet you've seen him and maybe don't know him by name. How great! I'll have to tell him to look for you. But I'm rambling, come on outside, have a late lunch, the guys are still out there."

"I-- I should-- I have to work again tonight. I should probably get some sleep."

"Oh," Jane said, looking disappointed, but then she grinned. "Well, Dean shouldn't be telling you to come over when you're working back-to-back overnights. Want me to yell at him for you?"

Castiel genuinely smiled at that, then carried on with his charade. "No, thank you. I sleep here. I mean, it's closer to the hospital. For me. From where I usually am. So Dean and Sam let me sleep here."

"All right, then. Well, it was good to meet you. I'm sure we'll see each other another time."

As Castiel's hands were full with Dean's laptop and the cord, Jane didn't try to shake his hand; instead, she patted him on his bare forearm.

_POP_

Castiel and Jane both jumped, startled.

"Goodness!" Jane exclaimed. "This sweater, I swear," she said, referring to her cardigan. "It'll pick up _any_ spare static electricity in the room."

Castiel managed a tiny chuckle as she left to go back outside. But his expression turned to one of deep thought. He stared at his arm, then at her retreating figure.

.

* * *

.

Dean and Sam were standing by the Impala, speaking quietly.

"Just make sure you don't let her tell you no - carry her stuff all the way in," Dean was saying.

" _Then_ what am I supposed to do?" Sam asked. "Casually start going through drawers right in front of her?"

They heard a door shut then, so both men immediately went silent and turned to their busy work with the car.

When Jane arrived back in the yard, she noticed the car door was open and Sam was carefully gathering the bigger pieces of the window, while Dean was rummaging in the trunk. He pulled out a roll of duct tape, tossing it on the ground, then removed what Jane assessed to be a moderately large piece of folded clear plastic tarp.

"So that's slightly disturbing," she commented, walking over to Sam and handing him the brush and dustpan.

"We'd helped a friend... paint their living room awhile back," Sam lied. He mentally added it to the ever-growing list.

Dean spread the plastic out on the ground, pulled out his pocket knife and cut off a portion. Walking over to the window, he held it up for sizing. Jane sat down in the grass nearby.

"All kidding aside, Dean, I feel awful about it," she said.

Dean raised an eyebrow and looked over at her briefly. "Baby's seen much worse and lived to tell the tale. Don't sweat it."

"Well I _am_ , and if I had the cash on me, I'd make you take it."

"You'd _make me_ , would you?"

"Seems I've got a hell of a swing."

Sam snickered, and Dean looked at Jane and shrugged. "If it'll make you feel better," he said, then knelt on the ground again, cutting more off the plastic.

"No," Sam told him, and to Jane, he said, "Don't waste your money on us."

"Oh, it won't be _my_ money," Jane replied. "At least, not right away. I'll just pull from petty cash for now."

Dean and Sam shared a _look_.

"What's that mean?" asked Dean.

"I'll pay it back. Andrew has to make a bank run next week anyway."

"Isn't that, uh, shady? Messing with grant funds?" asked Sam, hoping he kept his tone conversational.

Jane shook her head. "We don't have a grant."

Dean stopped his cutting. "So Andrew's a genius _and_ a kazillionaire?"

Jane laughed. "Maybe. I'm not sure. I mean, I know some of the expense accounts---"

" _Some_ of?"

"---are from the muckety-mucks who have been sponsoring his research since before I knew him. But the rest... yeah, it comes from trusts."

Jane adjusted her skirt as she re-positioned, and the brothers took the opportunity share another glance.

_Tread easy_ , Sam's eyes conveyed to Dean.

"What did his family do, invent the wheel?" asked Dean lightly, tacking on a bit of a smile.

"I know, right?" Jane said with a smile of her own. "I've never really gotten into it with him. He's always been super private. I get the feeling he's gotten burned, people trying to use him if they know about the money. Kinda how people judge him when they first see him. I don't blame him, I've seen the reactions."

"How? We didn't treat him weird," Sam said.

"Then apparently, he's not your type," Jane replied wryly. "I know it sounds silly, but it really does suck for him sometimes, being the most striking person in the room."

Dean raised his eyebrows at her. "I beg your damn pardon?"

Jane's eyes narrowed, and her tone was teasing. "Oh you know you're pretty."

Seemingly pleased, Dean returned to his task.

"But it's good that he's got outside funding, so he doesn't go through all of his own money," Sam commented, sweeping off the driver's seat, trying not to sound like he was prying.

"I've never interacted with anyone from the foundation. Andrew goes on trips every now and then, I guess to give them updates - I don't have to handle the travel arrangements or anything, they take care of it all. Otherwise, they leave him alone. Didn't mind him hiring me, anything he needs for his lab. We're really lucky."

Sam nodded, his mind turning over this new piece of information.

"Oh lord, what time is it?" Jane suddenly asked.

"About half past. Why?"

Jane slowly rose from the ground and dusted off a few pieces of grass as she answered. "I'm going to need to get back a little earlier than we'd talked about." She paused for a moment, then sighed before continuing. "The last half of this week, I hit a couple bumps---"

Sam and Dean both stopped what they were doing and looked at her.

"---so there's been a new cocktail added to the menu. I need to start it earlier than usual, so it'll be done by morning, that's all." They remained still and silent, and Jane sighed again, saying, "Well, we almost made it without y'all looking at me like that."

Dean cleared his throat then, standing and brushing off his jeans, saying, "Then I guess we need to go ahead and do the blood samples."

Jane had brought along her blood draw kit, which was essentially like a tackle box without the tiny compartments and trays. Several sizes of needles, gauze, tourniquets and disinfecting pads were arranged neatly, pairs of gloves and small sample bags tucked to the side. The bulk of the space, however, was taken up by at least two dozen tubes, with tops that were a virtual rainbow of colors.

"Take your time, I've got to double-check which tubes we need to use anyway," Jane replied, going over to the table. Wiping it clean, she removed a folder from her bag and laid out two lab requisitions, one with Dean's information and one with Sam's.

On a phone call earlier in the week, Sam had told her their pertinent details, which he thought was pretty impressive multi-tasking seeing as how at the time he was trapped in the Impala, reloading his gun, waiting for Dean to distract the sizable family of rabid raccoons that had been circling. Overzealous bloggers often led hunters astray in their missions, so they hadn't found the anticipated creature feature of the week. Even so, the homeowners did seem relieved, if perplexed, that the FBI had taken such interest.

The three sat in the grass around the table, and Sam went first. Jane was done in no time, filling several tubes, then applying gauze and tape to his inner elbow. Stripping off her gloves, she picked up her pen, wrote on each tube's label, and started checking various boxes on the requisition with Sam's name. Sam glanced over it and there, at the top, in the section marked _ORDERING PHYSICIAN_ , was a stamped name, office address, phone number, and a signature.

"'G.A. Angle, M.D.'," he read aloud. "Who's that?"

"My psychiatrist," Jane replied. She signed her name and wrote the date at the bottom. Finished, she folded the sheet neatly and tucked it into an outside pocket on the sample bag, then put in the tubes and sealed it up.

"Oh?"

Jane nodded, then motioned for Dean to come over and take Sam's place, saying, "It's really good for people with chronic conditions to be proactive about things like depression and anxiety. They'll sneak up on you if you're not careful."

"You'd tell us if any voices started ordering you to off us, right?" said Dean, rolling up his sleeve.

Sam shot him a _look_ that hopefully conveyed how inappropriate he found the comment.

"You would be the first to know," Jane replied, but paused, widening her eyes and looking around. "What? What should I do with the bat?" she said to the air, then winked at Dean, who chuckled.

"Well, that's nice of him to sign off on it," Sam said.

"He's good friends with the lady who runs the lab that processes all his practice's tests," she told them, putting on new gloves. "They're typically closed on the weekend, but she agreed to meet up with him tonight so they can put a rush on it. He's going to run by my place to pick 'em up later."

"You're just surrounded by doctors who'll do anything for you, huh," Dean commented.

Jane laughed, swabbing Dean's inner elbow with disinfectant, followed by tying a tourniquet around his bicep.

Sam's eyes were practically shooting lasers. _Stop it_ , he mouthed.

_YOU stop it_ , Dean mouthed back.

They _both_ stopped as Jane looked up briefly, picking up the needle.

"This is being done as a favor for Andrew, actually," she said. "He and Dr. G have known each other a thousand years. Before I started seeing him as a patient, he'd look out for me when Andrew would be out of town for long stretches. Still does. He's a great guy, really funny, y'all would like him."

Right as Jane had stuck Dean with the needle, her phone rang from inside her bag.

"Want me to get it?" asked Sam.

"Please," replied Jane, now beginning to fill the first tube.

"It's Andrew."

"Go ahead, you can answer."

"Hey, it's Sam... she's drawing Dean's blood... yeah, hang on," Sam said, then he put it on speaker and laid it to the side of Jane's supplies. "Okay, Andrew."

"She doing a good job, Dean?" came Andrew's voice from the phone.

"Didn't hurt a bit," Dean answered.

"They called her 'the vampire' in our old ER," Andrew told them.

"Only a few did," corrected Jane, now switching to a new tube.

"She's being humble - Jane could get blood from a mummy."

"So what's up?" Jane asked.

"Well, a tiny hiccup - I just talked to Gabe, he's had some sort of family emergency and he's got to head out of town."

"Why didn't he call me?"

"Because he was going over your plan of care with me - he thinks he might be gone for awhile, so your appointments are cancelled til TBD."

"Oh, that sucks, hope everything's all right."

"It didn't seem to be too bad, only time-consuming."

"What do you want to do about the bloodwork? It shouldn't be sitting around til Monday."

"I thought I'd bring it with me to work tonight, then run it to the lab on my break."

Jane had finished with Dean, popping the tourniquet loose and bandaging him up as she'd done with Sam. "That's great, thank you," she said to Andrew.

"One problem," he said in response.

She sighed. "You're not home, are you?"

"Nope."

"And I'd think Uber frowns upon active IV drug use. Could I stop my infusion part way? Or increase the rate?"

"Not if we want it to actually be effective, and not unless you want to be sweaty and nauseated all night."

"Cas can take it," Dean suddenly said.

"Who?" asked Andrew.

"Oh, good idea!" Jane said to him. Then, to Andrew - "A friend of theirs is a nurse in your ER."

Andrew was quiet for a moment.

"We trust him," Sam offered.

"It's your call," Andrew replied. "If he doesn't mind---"

"He doesn't," Dean cut in. "I mean, he won't."

"Sounds like a plan, then. Okay, I need to run. Good talking to you guys."

"You too," said Sam.

"Janey, call me if you have any trouble with---"

"I won't have trouble," Jane interrupted him in a sing-song voice. "Byeeeee."

"Uh-huh. Bye."

After hanging up, Jane looked to Dean and Sam. "You're sure he won't mind?" she asked.

"He's one of those thousand-year friends," Sam told her. "He'll be happy to."

"Wonderful," Jane said. They watched as she finished the paperwork for Dean's samples and tenuously pushed herself up from the ground with the help of the table.

"You're moving kinda slow," Dean observed aloud.

Jane closed up her kit, then picked up the sample bags. "I am?" she asked, almost too cheerfully, like she was preparing to deflect any concern. But then she seemed to change her mind. She brushed hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. The hand that had been so steady getting the labwork now gave her away with its slight trembling. "I _am_ a little worn out, I guess," she told them. "But I'm glad I came over. It's been a good day."

"Yeah, it has," Sam agreed, and not without sadness in his voice.

Dean stood up, saying, "I'm gonna get that window taken care of, then, so you two can get on the road. You just have a seat, Sam and I will put your stuff in the car."

Jane nodded, handing the sample bags off to him. She sat in one of the chairs, pulling the sleeves of her cardigan over her hands, wrapping her arms around herself. Scrunching down, she tilted her head, letting it rest against the back, and closed her eyes. Her breathing was deep and even, and she began to drift off almost immediately.

Dean looked at Sam, then in the direction of the Impala. Sam nodded. They set to work on the window in silence, each impatient for and yet dreading what Castiel had to tell them.

.

* * *

.

After getting Jane home, Sam broke every speed limit getting back. He found Dean and Castiel in deep conversation at one of the library tables, the blood samples lying near them. One of the lab requisition forms was unfolded and laid out. Dean's laptop was open, with what looked like several windows of photos displayed. Sam knew from what Dean had told him earlier that between he and Castiel, they had confirmed what he'd learned about Jane several years ago after his own investigation. And, they'd unearthed more. He hadn't known she'd been ill as a child, but it made sense to him, given the seeming ongoing nature and severity of whatever ailed her.

It also fueled the theory that three children - now including a sick one - were too much for John to handle. Sam had gone from being somewhat sympathetic to being utterly disappointed in his father. Not that he had far to go in that respect, when it came to decisions John made during their childhood.

Dean and Castiel stopped their conversation when Sam came in.

"How'd it go?" asked Dean.

"She dozed off again in the car," replied Sam, taking a seat next to Dean and across from Castiel. "I talked her out of giving you money for the window. I helped her in, she didn't seem too weak---"

"Not what I meant."

Sam's expression conveyed his annoyance before his tone did. "No, I did not have the opportunity to spy."

"Didn't have the chance, or didn't do it?"

Castiel broke in at that point, curbing the brewing argument. "We should show him."

Sam went silent, but shifted his gaze to Castiel, who clicked to the first picture, then turned the laptop a bit more in his direction.

"I had followed Jane to her recent appointment, to this Dr. Angle's office. I observed what floor she went to, and followed behind. It's in this building," he began, clicking through the photos as he spoke. "Here is the office."

"So you two _have_ been investigating Jane, not Andrew?" Sam asked.

"Just..." Dean advised him, holding up his hand.

Sam opted to be patient - for the moment - and looked back at the screen. The picture showed a typical office door, with narrow vertical windows on either side. A sign read "Center for Mental Health & Healing". Through the glass, he could make out a reception desk, two receptionists, and a standard waiting room - chairs, tables, a few plants, patients reading magazines.

"Today, since they would be closed, I went back," continued Castiel. "And this is what I found."

The next picture was a stark contrast. The sign was gone, in its place a taped paper, directing inquiries for leasing space to the building management. In the ones that followed, it appeared Castiel had entered the suite. The waiting room was completely bare, a drop cloth was over the reception desk. A ladder was near one wall, blue painting tape lining the trim work, various areas of spackle ready to be primed and painted. There wasn't even lighting installed - several ceiling panels were out, revealing in-progress wiring. No furniture in any of the offices. It was clearly being renovated.

"I then located the directory for the past eight years, as long as that building has existed. The last psychiatry practice was six years ago and not even in that suite," Castiel finished.

"There's also nothing filed on a business by that name. Not in the entire state," Dean added. He pointed over at the lab requisition. "And while you were gone, we pulled up the state's roll of licensed clinicians. Take a wild guess as to if there's a medical licensure on file for a 'G.A. Angle'."

Sam leaned back in his chair, seemingly lost in thought. Dean and Castiel both watched him carefully. He then sat up again, reaching over to the laptop, silently clicking through the photos one more time.

"After Andrew's call, saying her psychiatrist had to leave town, then this? We think Cas got made somehow, so they cleared out," Dean told him.

Sam continued to click through slowly.

"Cas also couldn't track Andrew."

Sam looked up with a slight frown, from Dean to Castiel. "Couldn't?" he repeated. " _You?_ "

Castiel sighed, then said, "By car, he would disappear every time, sometimes in a matter of a few miles, sometimes after ten or fifteen. I have yet to determine where it is he goes every day. That is, when I've not seen him at the hospital. Up close, he doesn't deviate from his normal duties as a physician, no unexplained periods of absence. When his shift is complete in the morning, he consistently goes to his home. To Jane."

Sam was thinking this over when Dean asked Castiel, "So do we think she's in on it?"

"In on _what?_ " Sam snapped.

Dean threw up his hands, exasperated. "Who knows? I know _this_ , whatever it is, has been years in the making. I know Crowley's interested in her. I know the only two people she seems to have in her life are both full of it."

"It's possible there's something bigger at work here, Sam," said Castiel. "The current motivation seems to be integration into your lives. In any event, it's clear there's a great deal of resources at _someone's_ disposal. You said she mentioned a foundation?"

The brothers nodded, but Castiel hesitated instead of responding.

"Spill," Dean commanded.

"I'm not entirely certain Jane is a party to whatever is occurring," Castiel said carefully.

Dean's eyebrows raised. "Based on all the time you've spent with her? You two go out for a margarita girl's night?"

Sam's reaction divulged the hope Castiel's statement had given him. "Ignore him, Cas. What makes you think that?"

"There's a... a cadence to her life, excepting right before Andrew entered it."

"Do we know what happened?"

"Her medical records had reverted to annual visits for almost a decade. Based on what would seem to be some sort of lengthy remission, my assumption is she fell ill again. It would explain the inability to work, the debt, the absence of seeking treatment." Sam nodded in acceptance, so Castiel went on. "Then all her troubles - at least, on paper - disappear. We have to assume that was due to his involvement. Working for him essentially means she's dependent on him for income. Though she's ill and receiving treatment, there's no medical records to be found since he became her primary caregiver, so he's isolated her in that respect, as well."

"Other than Dr. Fakey McHeadshrink," pointed out Dean, and Castiel nodded.

"Then when I met her today..." Castiel trailed off, his eyes drifting away from theirs, turning distant. "I have the feeling she's not a danger to the two of you."

"Have the feeling?" Dean echoed, then made a snorting sound. "You're starting to sound like Sam."

Sam continued to ignore Dean. "Why, Cas?"

"I couldn't get a good sense of what her illness may be. And then she... she happened to touch my arm. She thought she'd discharged some static electricity, but..."

"But?" Sam prodded.

Castiel brought his eyes back to theirs. "But it was _her_."

Now Dean and Sam sat up a little straighter, sharing a glance.

"I can't explain it. I can't compare it to anything else, though it was... _familiar_ somehow."

After a brief moment of silence, Dean looked to Castiel, saying, " _You_ aren't making a lick of sense. And it doesn't matter - let's say it's not Jane. She's a pawn, an orphan some big bad plucked out of Dixieland to charm her way in as our sister---"

"She _believes_ she's our sister, Dean," Sam interjected. "She's _not_ pretending. Otherwise, call up Hollywood, because she deserves all the awards. And she's legitimately sick, you guys said it yourselves, she was a sick kid. Documented by doctors _other_ than Andrew."

"This 'big bad' Dean suggests - they could be exacerbating whatever childhood ailments plagued Jane, to add an urgency regarding her insinuation into your affections," Castiel pointed out, and then something seemed to occur to him. "Her childhood medical records were diverse, but there _was_ a commonality: it was as if, at any given time, one or more of her systems was headed towards failure. Then she'd take a rapid turn for the better, only for it to repeat itself at a later date."

Sam looked over at Dean. "That's kind've what she said about---"

"Yeah, about her brain forgetting her lungs," Dean finished in agreement. "Damn, that'd be low. Not just an orphan, a _dying_ one."

"What if they... Andrew, this Angle person, Dean's big bad, whoever, _what_ ever... what if they were responsible for her turn-a-rounds the other times?" Sam posited.

All three fell silent again for a few moments.

"If so," Castiel began, "then we aren't talking about a few years; we're essentially talking about her entire life. And, Sam, I do not want to cause you grief. But if this _is_ the case, it's also probable the tests that confirmed she's your sibling are false."

Sam went perfectly still, didn't respond, and Dean leaned across him, planting a palm on the labwork bags, then sliding them down the table to Castiel as he said, "I know one way to find out."

Castiel nodded. "I'll take care of it immediately. Is there anything of hers she could have left here?"

"She drank bottled water today. I'll dig it out of the trash."

"Wait, you can't," Sam told them. "They're expecting that to go to Andrew tonight."

"Cas can replace our blood. You don't think we can actually trust any results coming through him, do you?" Dean asked.

"No, not anymore. But Cas has to hand _something_ over to him, and he'll know it's not our blood once he runs it..." Sam paused and sighed, then raised a hand and rubbed his eyes, looking like he could kick himself. "Because I already gave them my DNA."

The three sat back in their respective chairs, thinking. After several moments, Dean rapped his fingers on the table a few times. Processing out loud, he said, "No. No, we hand it over, and..."

Sam and Castiel looked at him, waiting on him to finish.

"Yeah, we hand it over, and we keep on going like we don't suspect the first damn thing." He pointed a finger at Castiel. "You're gonna keep showing up on his shifts, maybe even try to become his friend. That time frame is the only routine we know he's got, and we don't need to lose it."

Castiel nodded again. "And you two will continue to engage with Jane as her brothers."

"But what if it was like you said? That somehow they know Cas is the one who busted the psychiatrist?" asked Sam.

Dean shook his head. "We don't know that for sure, for all we know Crowley and his goons tipped 'em off. There's no way Crowley hasn't had her watched, maybe Andrew too, but if Cas couldn't pin him down, I know they couldn't, either."

"Dean's right," Castiel agreed, and he stood. "I need to go." He put the paperwork back in order and picked up the bloodwork, then looked at Sam. "I'll only need a small amount," he promised, receiving a hesitant nod of acceptance in return.

"Lemme get you that water bottle," said Dean, standing as well, and the pair walked to the kitchen. Several minutes later, Dean came back alone, sitting down next to a very solemn Sam.

"Hey - I like her, I do," he finally told his brother. "You don't have to stop caring about her or anything. I was starting to see it, too. Hell, maybe whatever's behind this somehow _made_ her into what our... into exactly what we'd expect. She's just not who you hoped she'd be. And given our lives? That's probably better for her."

Sam looked over at Dean, surprised he'd bother to offer comfort when his position on Jane's status as family was clear, and said, "All I keep thinking, is... we save lives. If Jane doesn't have much life left... Dean, we gotta get her out of there."

Dean nodded, clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"And we will."

.

* * *

NORTHWEST AROOSTOOK, MAINE  
SATURDAY - 11:45 P.M.

.

Max watched from his desk as his boss moved the mic aside, put an elbow on the table at which he sat, rested his head on his open palm, and closed his eyes.

_Oh, boy._

"...and I'm telling you, man, it was the CIA. They wanted The King _gone_ because he knew too much. They _had_ to have him killed. Only it didn't work, because it was some of that MK-Ultra garbage and The King was too strong for that. And Nixon _loved_ him, man, _he's_ the one that got him to South America but then the _cartels_ \---"

As the passion grew, so did the volume. Max winced as it flooded his headphones.

"Okay, my dude, listen, we're gonna have to move on now."

At the pointed _look_ he then received, Max clicked the lit button for the active phone line and the caller was disconnected.  _I'm sorry!_ Max mouthed to his boss, who rolled his eyes, sat up straight again, then adjusted the mic.

"Beloved listeners and potential callers, a gentle reminder - we don't do conspiracies here. Lack of critical thinking frightens us far more than the bumps in the night. Now kindly excuse us for a moment while we earn a little scratch, and we'll be right back."

Max clicked his mouse to start the sponsor segments he'd recorded earlier. Then, following his boss' lead, he slid his headphones down to his neck.

"Max, how long you been interning?"

"About a year."

"And when did we talk about the criteria for the callers we put on?"

"The... the first day."

"And how many times have you put on conspiracy theorists?"

"Just this one." _That_ earned Max a skeptical pair of raised eyebrows. "There was the one about the hidden voices in  _Suspicious Minds_... okay, and, well, around New Year's... about Graceland being on a burial ground," he conceded.

"Do you have an Elvis fixation I need to know about?"

Max was relieved that this wasn't the disaster he thought it might be, and let out a small chuckle of relief. He would've been inconsolable if he lost the internship. It wasn't even for that many credits. It certainly wasn't that he made a lot of money. The studio - if one could call the cavernous, unheated attic space a studio - was so far away from where he lived, he was essentially breaking even when it came to keeping fuel in his car.

And the subject matter certainly wasn't what he expected when he answered the posting on his college's student-run radio station's web page. The bulk of the interview process was all over the phone. But once Max knew who'd made him the offer - there was no way in hell he was turning it down.

"No, no fixation that I know of," he replied. "I'm.... I'm just not as good as weeding them out as you are."

"You'll get there. Just gotta learn what to listen for."

Max nodded. "Good news, though. Ed's ready and waiting on line four."

"Excellent."

Max stood, buttoning up the jacket he wore on top of the fleece vest on top of the long-sleeved flannel on top of the thermal undershirt. Then he pulled the mitten part over his fingerless gloves and walked over to the space heater, fiddling with the knob. He felt his teeth chatter ever-so-slightly.

"Run down and grab some coffee."

Max glanced up - his boss was focused on his laptop screen, rapidly combing through his inbox, deleting most of the emails as soon as he'd read one or two lines.

"Okay. You want some?"

A head shake in response, and Max bolted down the stairs. "Ads should be done in two," he called over his shoulder.

The inbox scrolling ceased upon the sight of an email from a familiar address with a cryptic subject line.

.

_GOOD EARS NEEDED ASAP_

.

The counter was rapidly approaching zero. The headphones went on. With a few clicks, a volume adjustment, and one tap for the blinking phone line, the show was back on the proverbial road.

"I have returned. Intern Max extends his deep apologies and as punishment, I plan to have him listen to _Heartbreak Hotel_ on repeat until he's properly repentant. Now for a treat - everybody put your hands together for the incomparable Mr. Zeddmore. Ed, welcome back to The Hollow. What delights have you brought us tonight?"

"Awesome to be back on. It seems a chapel whose history includes being struck by lightning, hit by a tornado, nearly burned to the ground, and had an airplane crash into it is now reportedly lighting up EMFs like Christmas trees, according to my sources."

"Ed, you prince among men. Keep talking, my man, you have the floor."

Cutting the mic, and keeping one side of the headphones partially on, just in case Ed went off the rails, focus was now re-routed back to the email. There were no specifics, save the detailed directions to a remote power plant in a tiny town. Possibly as tiny and remote as the current locale. And in Kansas, of all places - that was cause for a deep memory dive in and of itself.

But old friends had asked a favor, friends who never had before. Friends with shared history, left unspoken, about the things they'd seen and heard and witnessed. And they had gone unspoken for over twenty years, replaced by occasional texts to check one another still existed. Which was fine; discussing the past never did seem to change the present.

They had need of expertise, of a perspective they did not possess. It would have to be a great need to take a chance that a recluse living as far north as one could get would willingly answer the call. Based on how the email ended - possibly a _desperate_ need.

.

_Anytime, soon as you can. We'll be here. Please -_ _come home._

.

Max entered the attic once more, blowing gently on the steaming mug in his hands. "Ed have a hot one? What'd I miss?" he asked. After several moments of silence, Max tried again. "Mr. Moseley?"

Max did not know it, but two decisions had been made. One was about a plane ticket. The other was about him.

Mose looked up.

"You just got a promotion, kid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	4. The Winding Warren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam get an answer to their biggest question; Castiel's undercover mission leads him to rekindling an old partnership; Jane gets her own unexpected visitor

* * *

 " _Even if she be not harmed ... hereafter she may suffer - both in waking, from her nerves,  
and in sleep, from her dreams."_ ― _Bram Stoker: author,_ _Dracula_

* * *

 

NOW

I know you are all anxious for me to get to the chapel incident, but everything in its own time. You've heard more than one Winchester assert that family is not just blood - and I hope you've felt as much yourselves - yet the brothers found themselves moving up and down a spectrum of emotion regarding Castiel's pending news. They held dear - and, still do - their relationships with those who had moved on. Bobby. Ellen. Jo. Kevin. Charlie. Members of their family, picked off one by one.

Even still, the idea of having a flesh-and-blood member was eating away at both of them. They'd have a chance at true kinship beyond their own. A chance they'd never had with Adam. A piece of John and Mary. A piece of each other, should one of them leave the other again, be it for a time or for always. To have a third would be a comfort, would lift a weight.

Though it would add a burden. Another's safety to consider. Another's anger and sadness and heartbreak - and another's love. In some ways, that felt burdensome as well.

But I'm jumping ahead. Allow me to take you back to the weekend of Jane's second visit to the bunker, when Dean received a phone call from Castiel the morning of the next day. Sam was just climbing out of bed, and Dean was making coffee when his phone rang.

.

* * *

THEN 

Sam walked into the kitchen, finding Dean standing silently near the coffee maker, staring down at his phone, which he still held in his hand though his call had ended several minutes prior.

"You okay?" Sam asked casually, walking past him to grab a mug.

"Ah... Cas just called."

Sam froze. "And?" he finally said when Dean went quiet once more.

"And, um...heh. Well..." Dean was chuckling as he turned, looking more than a bit shell-shocked. "Congratulations. It's a girl."

Sam had spent the night before preparing himself to lose the sister he may've never had, thinking of how he'd eventually break it to her, wrestling with all the possible outcomes of how she would react - not only to the truth of who she was, but to the deception that had engulfed her life.

Yet now he felt his heart rate increase, and he dashed from the kitchen, back to his bedroom, scrambling to get his phone from the pocket of the jeans he'd thrown across the chair. Dean shook himself from his own daze and followed after. He found Sam perched on the bed, holding his phone to his ear.

"I didn't wake you up, did I?" Sam was saying, and Dean knew instantly he had called Jane.

Dean motioned for him to put it on speaker, coming to sit down beside him. Sam nodded, holding up a finger, listening to her reply. Then he hit the button and held the phone between them.

"Yeah, Cas called us and let us know he'd gotten it there safe and sound. Hey, Dean's here."

"Oh, morning Dean!" came Jane's cheerful voice.

"Hey. You get any good rest last night?" he asked.

"I did. Waking up is weird, did I tell y'all that part yesterday?"

"No, tell us," replied Sam.

"So the new infusion - the reason Andrew's having me do it overnight is because it makes me hallucinate!"

Jane said it with a touch of a giggle, but knowing what they knew, Sam and Dean shared a serious look.

"I've taken medicine before that has given me whacky dreams, but this stuff is a whole other level," Jane continued. "Okay, so I fell asleep last night watching a nature show. And then I had these vivid dreams about rabbits. They were everywhere. _Huge_ ears."

"Was the show about rabbits?" asked Sam.

"No, it was about Galápagos tortoises."

Myriad expressions crossed Dean's face.

"Don't ask me, who knows?" Jane went on. "But when I get up in the morning, it takes probably a good half hour for the effects to wear off til I come to my senses. When you called, I had just been double-checking that there were not, in fact, bunnies in the bathtub. You know, like you do."

"Then I'm glad we... brought you back to reality," Sam said, forcing a small laugh, and the hidden meaning in his words was not lost on Dean.

"So what have you two got going on today?"

Sam started to answer, when Dean blurted out, "Do you wanna come over again?"

Sam raised his eyebrows, surprised.

"Today?" Jane asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Um..."

"I know it may be a lot of time on the road for you--" Dean began when she hesitated.

"No, no, it's not that, I'm just thinking... could it be pretty soon? So I can get back in time to start the next round of acid trips?"

Dean laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, we can do that."

"Just one condition: let me get a ride out there, y'all have spent way too much time playing chauffeur."

"Are you sure?" asked Sam.

"Positive."

The brothers looked at each other again, both slowly starting to smile.

"Okay, great," Sam told her. "We... we can't wait to see you."

"Stop that, you're gonna make me cry, and I won't find the rest of these damn rabbits if I can't see." A few beats of silence as she waited on a response and, upon not receiving one, she added, "I'm _kidding_! Good lord."

"Well quit playing around. Hurry up and get over here," Dean ordered.

"Copy that. Bye."

"Bye."

Sam looked at Dean after he'd hung up, saying, "That's really great of you."

"What?"

"Wanting her to be with us."

Dean stood and his attitude shifted into taking-care-of-business mode as he responded. "Well, we gotta get her away from Andrew, right? Best we get started now."

 _Right_ , thought Sam. _That's the reason_. Aloud he asked, "Where are you going?"

Dean turned before he was completely out of the room, grabbing onto the door jamb and leaning around it, answering, " _I_ am going to grab a shower, then get started on making a metric ton of popcorn. _You_ need to clean up in here."

A bit of a smile came to Sam's face. "Because...?"

"Because I don't know about you, but I'm not going to spend my day talking about Andrew or medicine or investigating or hunting. I'm going to have a relaxing movie day with my little sister, and I'm gonna need that TV to do it."

.

* * *

.

The binder that was open on Sam's lap held his rapt attention.

After the brothers got showered and dressed, they got busy with prep work. Dean threw a few blankets in the washing machine in case Jane got cold, and Sam had moved around some of the smaller furniture in his room, then turning his bed so that one of the sides was up against the bricks, creating a makeshift sofa to face the TV - they agreed she'd be more comfortable there than in one of the ratty recliners in their makeshift den. After a brief spat over how many pillows to place against the wall, and Dean left to get more snacks, Sam threw the blankets in the dryer and added three additional pillows he'd grabbed from spare bedrooms.

Jane had arrived before Dean got back - and, she'd brought some of her genealogy research along. Now she and Sam were sitting beside each other on the bed, backs against the pillow-lined wall, and they were still combing through it after Dean had returned. Jane had just told him about Millie's father's side of the family, several of whom earned notoriety in the south for being rum-runners during prohibition, then moved on to her mother.

"...and that side of the family is all from Great Britain. The church ladies said they'd remembered her mother being so excited that Millie was marrying someone with a very English last name."

Sam glanced up at Jane. "I am blown away. I had no idea."

Jane nodded. "Me, too. I haven't gotten too far back with all the branches, not yet. The Campbells seem to be fairly stationary, middle-of-the-country folks. And Millie's immediate family, well, her father being in the service - they moved around all the time, of course."

"Do you know how he met Millie's mother?"

"I know she was his second wife - his first wife was from America - so I assume he met her when he was in Europe at some point around World War I," Jane replied. She flipped ahead several pages and pointed to a copy of a photo of several men in naval uniform. A sticky note to the side in Jane's handwriting read _FRANCE 1917_. "I'm not sure which one is him, I found it online in someone else's family tree, but he was listed in the caption."

Sam turned back to the pages on Millie. There was a highlighted portion of a local newspaper page, showing an article and photo regarding a school talent competition. The caption read: _Emeline Boyd, sophomore, pictured, first place_. The article mentioned she'd played piano since she was three years old. "You look so much like her," Sam commented.

Jane smiled. "I take that as a great compliment."

He scanned further. "Her mother taught piano."

"When wrangling three kids didn't keep her busy."

"What happened to them? Her brothers?"

Jane turned the page in response, and Sam saw copies of death records, one for each of Millie's half-brothers. The facing page held obituaries, from the same local paper that had reported on the talent show. Both brothers were older than Millie by ten and twelve years, both in the service, and both had died in the second world war.

"Oh, man. They died that close together?" he commented.

Jane nodded, and then she reached up, rubbed her eyes.

"Not still seeing things, are you?"

"No, just tired from focusing on small print. Prepare yourself, it's a perk of getting older." She paused a moment before continuing. "I was being a little silly this morning on the phone. As far as visual side-effects go, it's the least annoying. And it's funny. And it's going to make for great stories."

Sam smiled briefly at this, but it was small and close-lipped. "Still, I've... I can just imagine how strange it is, thinking something right in front of you is real, even when you know it's not."

Jane wondered what was behind this statement, but chose not to pursue it since he had quickly glanced away and promptly shifted the subject back to her. 

"But, um, what else has happened - what's more annoying?"

"The not-being-able-to-drive thing. We knew something was up when my eye color started getting darker - and there's non-Andrew medications that can do it - but they went from kind've dirty-fish-tank-green to this." Jane pointed to herself, referring to her currently brown irises. She glanced around his room, and her gaze fell on a flashlight sitting on top of his desk, prompting her to add, "Wanna see something cool?"

Sam turned off the the lights as instructed so only a bit was seeping in from the hallway, then grabbed the flashlight. Jane had pulled her legs up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged, so that he could fold a leg under himself and sit directly across from her. She had also closed her eyes, keeping them shut, even as Sam sat back down.

"Okay, turn it on and move it slowly across from the side, right around my eyebrows, and tell me when. And watch."

Sam did so, and she opened her eyes as wide as she could. "Holy..." he began, trailing off as his jaw dropped.

He understood the reason he wasn't supposed to put the light directly in her eyes - her pupils had dilated almost to the point that he couldn't discern the black from the brown, and had the light hit them directly, they'd have contracted again. And then he would've missed it: the faint glimmer, speckles almost, that hovered around the outer edge of the bottom of her pupils. Some appeared to be closer than others; some actually seemed _brighter_ than others.

Sam clicked the flashlight off as Jane blinked, returning moisture to her eyes.

"It's around the top half, too," Jane told him. "You've heard of being 'starry-eyed', and, well, there you go. Now you can say you've witnessed it for yourself."

"What is it?"

"At first we thought tumors---"

"Jane!"

"---but they're not! They're likely just deposits of who-knows-what, something's crystallized back there and it's reflecting the light."

Sam stared, speechless at her nonchalance.

"It's why I can't drive, at least, not at night," Jane explained. "That might not ever come back. But Andrew's been tinkering with different types of lenses, for sunglasses, so I'll be able to drive again during the day. Some day. Fingers crossed. I'd take central heterochromia any day, not only is it unique, it coordinates itself to any outfit."  
  
Sam's expression went to one of faint confusion - Jane extended two fingers, Three-Stooges-style, pointing at his eyes. "Hazel, with a kick of hereditary coolness," she said. "Really, I'd take anything, though. I hate this mud brown. _Haaaate_."  
  
Sam laughed. "I like 'em, they suit you. Not the mud part. I mean, they write songs about brown eyes, right? Plus, heterochromia's probably a pain to rhyme."  
  
" _One song_ , Sam. _One_ song for brown-eyed girls, lazily titled ---"

"What are you guys talking about?" Dean said, coming into Sam's room. He had a huge bowl of popcorn in one hand and three bottles clutched between the fingers of the other. Frowning for a moment at the darkened room, he flicked the switch with his elbow.

"Jane has constellations in her eyes," Sam replied lightly, like it was no big deal.

"How gross of you to say," Dean stated, making Jane laugh. Setting the popcorn and bottles on the desk so he could put his hands on his hips, he asked Sam, "You not get the blankets?"

"We got distracted with--"

Dean shook his head. "Not 'we', I asked _you_. You were in charge of blankets, and I see there's about sixty pillows but no blankets."

Sam had already rolled his eyes at Jane, and started scooting off the bed before Dean had even finished. "Be right back, _Dad_ ," he said, but good-naturedly, and walked out the door.

Dean smirked, picking up the popcorn and two of the bottles, then plopping down beside Jane.

She grinned, and said, "You two should take your act on the road." Having moved the binder out of the way for him, she leaned to her right, setting it on Sam's nightstand.

"Do I get to see that?" Dean asked.

"Oh, it's yours to keep. Yours and Sam's."

"Really?"

"I've got it all on my computer. I started printing off things I thought he'd find interesting. It's not done, of course, but... I just wanted to go ahead and bring what I had ready."

Dean nodded. He backed himself up to the wall and slid over a bit, nestling the bowl of popcorn between them, and she took some.

When he handed her a bottle, she arched an eyebrow and asked, "Isn't it a little early?"

"No. But look."

Jane did, and sure enough, it was root beer. "Oooh, I haven't had this in forever! I love it, I just never think to put it on the shopping list for Andrew. I don't know that he cares for it." She took a giant swig, punctuated by an _Mmmm_ of approval.

"So, what, you can only have food both of you like?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "I just... I just don't want to take advantage. Even if it seems small. He does so much for me already."

Dean considered making another comment, but opted for stuffing a handful of popcorn in his mouth instead. Truth be told, a part of him didn't trust himself to talk to Jane about anything Andrew-related unless Sam was there to help keep him in check. "Pass me that," he asked Jane through the popcorn, pointing to the binder.

She did, and he wiped his hands down his jeans to rid himself of any buttery oil before he took it. Dean flipped through the pages, not looking as carefully as Sam had done, just scanning. All the pages were carefully arranged in plastic pockets. There were sticky-note markers attached at various intervals with last names written on them. _Boyd. Campbell. Winchester._

"This is great. You did a lot of work."

"Once you know names, tracking down the records comes pretty easily," said Jane. "I mean, it takes a minute, but give me enough time and I've got no problem raising the dead. The living is trickier."

Dean looked over at her. "I take it you mean us?"

"Don't get me wrong - I'm glad y'all are so off the radar. Once I knew about your bounty hunting, and when Sam told me there are still some of those nutter Men of Letters out there?" Jane shook her head. "No way. I'd keep myself under wraps, too."

The binder was under half-way full, and Dean had noted something almost immediately. He glanced at Jane, then to the binder, and back again, asking, "Where's the stuff on you?"

"I can just _tell_ you about _me_. We can't call these folks up. Unless the nutters actually did manage to contact the other side, and y'all are holding out on me," Jane replied, tacking on an _ooooh_ in a spooky voice, wiggling her fingers in the air.

"Heh, right. So, what's the scoop on Jane? Likes root beer, hell of a baker, good with needles, has the Scarlett O'Hara thing going on."

"What do you want to know?" Jane asked. She munched on popcorn while she waited on him to decide.

"I dunno... well, Sam had said you and I were practically twins. When's your birthday?"

An odd look passed over her face, one that Dean couldn't interpret because it came and went so quickly before she began to answer. "Oh, I stopped having birthdays after my thirtieth. It was a good one, last time I was able to travel. Some girlfriends and I went to New Orleans to do some sinning. Can't top that, so why bother trying?" Jane answered, with a most-definitely forced grin, and it retreated almost immediately. She grew solemn, her eyes leaving his and falling to the bottle as she began to pick at the root beer label.

"Hey."

Jane looked at him.

"When's your birthday?" he repeated, but quietly, gently.

"Um... you and I were born in the same year. I was a preemie. There's a little window where we're the same age, so that's..."

Dean waited.

"It's... it's on November second."

"Oh."

It was all Dean could manage. He cleared his throat, closing the binder and standing, putting it back on the nightstand. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and then pointed at her, saying, "I got it - the tortoise and the hare."

Jane's eyebrows shot up. "Do what, now?"

"The show, about the tortoises. They coulda been hares. In your dream. That's why the bunnies in the bathtub."

She slowly smiled, and he was glad to see a twinkle come to her eyes.

Sam came back in, one blanket thrown over his shoulder and two in his arms. "Hot out of the dryer," he announced.

Dean clapped his hands together.

"What are we watching?"

.  
/ / / /  
.

Two movies - and multiple comments from Jane and Dean about scientific and firearm inaccuracies, respectively - later, the three reluctantly climbed into the Impala for Jane's return trip.

"I can get in the back," Sam offered.

"Shortest goes in back," replied Jane. "I'm rarely the shortest in a given group. Let me enjoy this."

Sam laughed and held the door open for her as she climbed in.

"Tsk. That window," Jane commented once they were on their way, and the air was whipping against the plastic, making a noticeable sound. "I'm just so---"

"Don't _worry_ about it," Dean said sternly, in much the same vein as he would've said it to Sam. He'd done it without thinking. But glancing in the rear-view mirror, he saw a faint smile on her face. To Sam, he said, "Grab the tapes, put on some music to drown this out."

"Yay," said Jane, and she leaned forward, her shoulders and head coming into the front, peering over Sam's shoulder and into the box.

"Sit down," Dean ordered.

"Make me," Jane replied under her breath, not looking at him. She took the handful of tapes Sam handed her and shuffled through them. Jane scanned over the song titles and artists, grinning at how Dean's age could be tracked in faded handwriting, not to mention the dated cover art on the ones that still had cases. After a moment, she spoke. "For _real?_ This is a great collection of rock you've got going here, but no Lauper? Jett? Heart? Nicks? Is there a genitalia requirement to be in this car, because if so..."

Sam snickered.

"Tell you what, when you get to driving again, then how's about _I'll_ sit in the backseat and pick out what music _you_ get to play in _your_ car," Dean replied, though he seemed more amused than testy.

"Driver sets the playlist, fine, fine, fine," she acknowledged, handing the tapes back to Sam.

"Besides - Baby's a girl."

Jane looked from Sam to Dean, and back again, saying to Sam, "He called it that yesterday, I assumed it was just, you know, ' _that's my baby_ '."

"Oh, but no," said Sam.

Jane's head turned once more to Dean. "I get naming cars... I'm just curious: how did you arrive at Baby, if I can ask?"

"You can ask."

Jane opened and closed her mouth a few times as if to respond, then seemed to opt against it, and turned her focus back to the music selection. Sam held up a tape for her to see, raising his eyebrows. She replied with a thumbs-up. He stuck it in and cranked the knob. Dean gave his nod of approval.

So it was, rather appropriately, that Journey accompanied them the rest of the way.

.

* * *

.

Castiel's shift in the ER was almost complete - three minutes to go, to be precise - and he'd lucked out, because while Andrew's shift had ended prior to his, it seemed the doctor was running behind. The typically mellow department had been active for most of the night, with several heavily inebriated teenagers who'd apparently broken into an abandoned church and raised quite the ruckus. Between them, the police officers, the ambulance crew and, not much later, the parents, it had been chaos.

Right at that moment, Andrew and another ER physician were in the hallway chatting just outside of the triage area, which is where Castiel had been assigned. He was getting a little punchy, anxious to follow Andrew after overhearing him say that he was headed to his lab for awhile before going home. And learning the lab's location was number one on the angel's list. But now the night shift clerk was walking towards Castiel, and he rolled his eyes as he handed over a check-in form and a blank triage page.

"Have a seat, Cas will take care of you!" the clerk said in an too-sweet voice to the woman and the young boy following behind him. The clerk then made a hasty retreat, glancing at his watch. _Everyone_ was ready for that shift to be over.

"Hello," Castiel said to them, trying to hide his annoyance at having his eavesdropping interrupted. "What is your emergency this morning?"

The woman sighed, settling into a chair beside the small desk at which Castiel sat, and gestured to the child, who had hopped up onto the nearby stretcher. The boy, about seven or eight years old, was not in any apparent distress. In fact, he was currently eating - practically _mauling_ \- a huge burrito. Castiel couldn't even fathom where they'd gotten a burrito that early in the morning.

"His stomach won't stop giving him trouble," she lamented. "It just doesn't matter what I do."

"He, ah, doesn't seem to be in any pain right now," Castiel replied. Looking to the boy, he asked, "Are you in any pain?"

The boy ignored him, now planting an exaggerated pout on his face. "Mooooom, they didn't put on sour creeeeam!" he whined.

Castiel turned back to his mother. "How long has this been going on?"

The mother was now looking at something on her phone, but she replied, "Oh, since he was about 2 or 3 years old. He's so picky, and he can't seem to stay full, and..."

Castiel heard a light laughter coming from Andrew and the other physician in the hallway. Then he heard a few footsteps, but they didn't seem to be walking far away. Yet. He needed to get this moving along. "Madam, perhaps I wasn't clear. What happened that prompted you to bring him in?"

She looked up, seeming genuinely confused. "I told you, he complains about his stomach all the time."

"Mom, where's my driiiiiiiink," the child whined, as if on cue.

"Here, honey," she replied, pulling a sugary drink box from her purse.

"My apologies for not being clear - I mean to say, today. What happened _today_."

Now she huffed, shooting him a near-glare. "I get the runaround from his pediatrician, they won't open the office to let me bring him in, so _you all_ need to figure it out, you need to xray him and draw some blood---"

"I haaaaaate needles, noooooooo-unumph," the child had begun to wail, kicking his legs out in front of him, but his mother had promptly pushed upwards on the burrito he clutched, shoving it into his open mouth. Appeased, he went back to his assault. And she went back to whatever was so important on her phone.

"...and you're always there on Sundays? You work too hard!"

A woman's voice, the other physician's, had drifted through the door.

"Well, you know - there's hard work to do."

Andrew's voice, followed by a brief chuckle.

Castiel ever-so-slightly moved on his wheeled stool closer to the doorway, trying to keep a line of sight on Andrew as the boy's mother continued listing off all the gastrointestinal issues her son had apparently had since the womb. As she was still consumed with what appeared to be a celebrity gossip site on her phone, Castiel took the opportunity to roll himself over even more, peeking around the door frame.

"...don't really get the chance. Hey, why don't we head out, get breakfast?"

"I thought the physician breakfast was the first Friday of every month," Andrew said.

"It is," his colleague replied with a smile, her eyes giving him a thorough up-and-down, not hiding her interest.

"Oh... heh... um..." Andrew mumbled, fidgeted, feigning nervousness with a shaky smile, adjusting his glasses, stuffing his hands in his pockets, averting his eyes. In Castiel's estimation, it was an impressive performance. Andrew's whole Clark Kent routine was spot-on.

A loud sucking noise broke Castiel's focus; the sound of an empty juice box hitting the wall broke his patience.

"Sweetie, I know you don't feel well but let's not throw things," the mother said blandly, scrolling away.

"You got the wrong kiiiiiind - huh?"

Castiel had abandoned his stool, walking purposefully to the stretcher. He laid one hand on the boy's belly, the other atop his head. The child blinked several times, looking confused, then opened his mouth. A wad of burrito fell out. Castiel caught it and chucked it over his shoulder into the trash bin without a glance. The boy now looked down at his burrito with an expression of distaste, and he passed it to his mother.

"You... you don't want the rest?" she asked, finally finding something more interesting than Hollywood blind items.

He shook his head slowly. "No, thank you." A pause. "Can we have broccoli at lunch?"

Now it was his mother's turn to look a bit confused. "How in the name of..."

One of the day shift nurses had entered to take over triage, finding Castiel half-way to the door. "Will there be anything else, madam?" he asked.

"I... I... he..." she stuttered.

"Have a great day," Castiel said absently, not waiting for her to decide, quickly leaving the room.

The nurse and the woman looked at each other, then to where Castiel once stood.

"I liked him," the boy announced happily.

The nurse walked over to the door, peeked out, glanced around.

The hallway was empty.

.

* * *

.

Upon arriving at Jane's apartment, before they pulled away from the curb, Dean leaned over Sam to speak through the open passenger window.

"Hey, mind if I use your bathroom before we head back?"

Jane nodded. "Sure." She pointed over the hood. "Just park over there, and come on up."

After they parked and got out, Sam gave Dean a serious look, saying, "Don't make with the snooping for Andrew dirt. Please."

"Pump your brakes, I just have to go to the little boys' room," Dean replied.

Then, after a pause:

"Maybe go through some of his drawers."

Then, after another pause:

"Not his _drawers_ drawers---"

They began walking across the parking lot to the building.

"I know what you meant," Sam cut him off. "How's about don't do either."

The door to the apartment was first on the right at the top of the open-air stairwell, and Jane had left it cracked for them. Dean was about to walk in, when he noticed Sam had fallen behind him and was currently reaching into his back pocket. Dean eyed him, asked, "Whatcha got there?"

Sam, caught, brought his hand around and opened his palm to show Dean a tiny hex bag, which earned him raised eyebrows. "Old Ruby trick," he sheepishly replied, returning the bag to his pocket.

"Uh-huh. I remember. Okay, so, instead of what _you_ said, how's about we do a little mutual distracting, be a team here."

"Fine."

Jane and Andrew's apartment was surprisingly small for two people, at least by Dean and Sam's estimation. The main space was an open area, with a galley-like kitchen off to the side. It had a window on the far wall, over the sink, and an open space with a ledge above the stove, in the dividing wall, so that whomever was there could still see and converse with anyone eating or watching TV. The far wall also contained two more windows - one in the living room space and, beyond, in the bedroom.

There was a small round table with two chairs opposite the kitchen wall's opening, though the bulk of the space in that area was occupied by the clear plastic storage bins lining the entire side wall. Visible inside were medical supplies of all sorts, boxes of gloves, IV tubing, and more liters of saline and variously-tinted medications than could be counted at a glance. Jane's phlebotomy kit was perched on top of one of the stacks, and a tall IV pole on wheels with a multi-chambered pump attached was to the side.

The rest of the space was sparse in its contents - a sofa, a small rectangular coffee table, a modestly-sized flat screen mounted to the wall across from them. On either side of the television were two doors, both open. Dean could see that the room on the left - the one with the bed - was slightly larger than the other which, from his vantage point, he assumed was used as an office, given the large corner desk with file drawers, dual monitors, and a business-sized printer on one end.

"It's a jack-and-jill bathroom, you can cut through either," Jane said to Dean when she saw him glancing around, gesturing to the open doors.

"Be right back," he told them.

"Oh, do me a favor? Bring back the pill bottles labeled Sunday-Tuesday-Thursday, please? In the medicine cabinet?" Jane asked, then turned away, opening a cabinet to pull out a box of tea.

"Sure," Dean replied, and looked at Sam with raised eyebrows and a shrug before he headed into the bedroom, their snooping now endorsed to a small degree.

Sam was glancing around, trying not to be obvious. He hadn't gotten a good look when he'd dropped her off the night before. He noticed right away that even though the apartment and furnishings were plain, there were touches of Jane all over. He had long ago realized that while her clothing tended to be fairly muted, there were always splashes of color in a barrette or lipstick or earrings, and the same held true in her home. The curtains on each of the windows that all matched in hue but differed in pattern. The bold-colored paisley throw pillows on the beige sofa. The vintage 50s-era coat she once told him she'd rescued from a flea market, re-lined and dyed to a deep purple shade, that was lying over the arm. The green rain boots next to the larger black ones on a tray by the door.

"I have to know," Sam said to her, pointing at the boots. Jane turned from filling the tea kettle, shutting off the tap and peeking through the opening in the wall.

"The froggies?" she asked, and he nodded, as on the toes, the boots sported painted eyes with curled lashes, dots for nostrils plus sprinklings of tinier ones for freckles, and pink tongues dangling from smiling mouths. "The lady who did the doctors' schedules at our old ER got those for me," Jane explained, setting the kettle on an eye and flicking on the burner. "On the phone once, she heard me refer to the absolute _deluge_ we'd been having as a toad-choker, and it just tickled her for some reason. She'd apparently asked Andrew my shoe size, and he came home with them one day. I have no idea where she got them, I've searched online everywhere - their poor little faces are starting to flake off."

Sam chuckled. "They're great. Lemme know if you find 'em in my size."

"Ha! Will do."

Meanwhile, Dean had paused to take in the bedroom. While the rest of the place was spare and organized to the hilt, this room was very lived-in and cozy. Several pictures hung on the walls. The duvet and shams were a soft, muted gray, the sheets a lavender flannel with barely-there plaid. The bed was hastily made, he could tell, and it appeared Jane had gone through several outfit options based on a few not-quite-closed drawers and the handful of items lying rumpled atop a quilt at the foot of the bed.

The surface of a chest of drawers was practically covered. There was an oval mirror with chipped paint to the back, propped against the wall, multiple photographs tucked into the frame - some of Andrew, several of her with Andrew, a few old black-and-whites of people he didn't recognize, one of what seemed like an old farmhouse with a huge porch, and another showing what looked to be a car in the process of being rebuilt. There were several small bottles of perfume and lotion. A handful of earrings and a few rings rested in a small, well-worn teacup, her charm bracelet on the matching saucer underneath, encircling it.

He used the bathroom quickly, then after washing his hands, left the faucet on while he quietly opened the door that lead from the bathroom into the other room. He'd been right - it _was_ an office. But there was also a dresser against one wall, that he hadn't been able to see from the living room, and after a peek there and in the closet, he saw that both contained men's clothing.

 _Andrew's_ clothing.

Dean frowned, bothered at the lack of a second bed, and the thought of Andrew and Jane perhaps being more than just good friends and roommates. Looking around again, he noted that the desk area was fairly organized but still had Jane's telltale footprint - the neon-colored sticky notes and highlighters, several file folders that hadn't been put away, the ratty-looking, faded red hoodie across the back of the chair. One area of the desk seemed to be devoted to her familial research, judging by a cursory glance at the contents of a tray. He picked up the paper lying in the printer - a newspaper article from the 1920s with the headline _BOOTLEGGING BOYDS STRIKE AGAIN!_

But as for the rest - Dean thought he hadn't even seen a retail store stack and hang things so neatly. Nothing was out of place, nothing was out of the ordinary, save the OCD vibe. Even the man's socks and undershirts looked like they'd been professionally staged for a window display. The top of the dresser did, however, hold promise - a long, rectangular wooden box. Could've held a firearm or two, could've held flatware, but to Dean's disappointment, all he found were carefully rolled ties, a few sets of cuff links, and a wristwatch that looked to be vintage, something he chalked up to Jane's doing, because there was nothing else that smacked of sentimentality. No photos, no music, no mementos, no _personal_ effects that he could see. Not even the soap and shampoo in the shower - other than what was clearly Jane's - lent any further insight into Andrew whatsoever.

Dean heard Sam and Jane's voices moving closer in proximity to him - they must've been headed to the sofa. So he silently went back into the bathroom, closing the door to the office gently, then turned off the water. Opening the medicine cabinet, he was almost dumbstruck by the amount of pill bottles, but he put that aside for the moment, plucking out the ones Jane had requested. And he grabbed the bottle of pink antacid for good measure.

Back in the living room, Sam had sat at the table and chatted with Jane as she busied herself pulling out a liter of the scantly-tinted pale blue infusion from the refrigerator, followed by several packets of tubing from one of the storage bins. He observed as she hung the bag on the IV pole, primed the tubing, then popped open one of the chambers attached to the pump's side, running the tubing through it and securing it with a click.

"I'm glad y'all needed to come in, I wanted to change this out," Jane told Sam.

Scrunching her sleeve up above her elbow, she pointed to the small section of tubing attached to one of her ports, coiled up and tucked under the cloth bandage. Seeing it all clearly for the first time, Sam observed the transparent dressing over the ports' entry site into her arm. There was a small piece of plastic securing them, which appeared to be stitched into place.

"What is it?" he asked, pointing to the small tube.

"An extension, so I can use both hands to hook and unhook my medicine when I'm by myself. I just need someone else to hold it still while I screw it on. Want to help?"

"Sure."

Sam donned gloves, and Jane went to the kitchen briefly, pushing a small syringe of saline through a newly unpackaged extension tube and letting the excess drip into the sink. Bringing it back, she taught him how to attach it, as she'd done with Dean the week prior. Then she connected it to the bag and started the pump. Pole in tow, they moved to the sofa. "How come Andrew didn't help with that?" Sam asked.

"He usually comes by after his shifts," Jane replied with a shrug. "We just missed each other this morning."

As Jane unzipped her boots and took them off, nudging them under the coffee table, Sam subtly pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen - nothing from Castiel to indicate Andrew's absence that morning was related to any trouble on his end. Dean exited the bedroom just then, and set the pill bottles and antacid down in front of Jane, on the coffee table.

"Oh, good call," she told him. She glanced around. "Darn it, I didn't grab a water."

When she started to get up, Sam waved her back. "I got it."

Opening the fridge, he grabbed the bottle of water for Jane, and noted that the produce drawers were filled with medication - the left with syringes of various colors stacked in two narrow, clear plastic trays and then to the side, multiple tiny bags like the one she'd had on her first visit, plus a few half-liters with a milky, cloudy cast. The right drawer contained three bags, all liters, only one being a seemingly normal bag of saline with the expected information printed on the bag itself. The other two bags were without information, and of a light sky-blue tint, like the one she was currently receiving.

The kettle started to whistle just as Sam had handed Jane her water. "Want me to start your tea?" he asked.

"If you want to, sure," Jane replied. "And fix yourself some for the road. Or grab water or a soda, anything you need."

"Thanks," said Sam, and he went back to the kitchen. After he turned off the stove, he opened a few cabinets to find a mug. He noticed a basket by the refrigerator, filled with pill bottles and a few inhalers. "Hey, Jane, did you not need any of these other pills?" he called out.

"No, those are for mornings," Jane replied.

"Damn," Sam muttered.

Her regimen was about fifty times more intense than he and Dean had imagined. And apparently, so was Andrew, more than he'd ever picked up on over the course of his time getting to know Jane. Now Sam was thinking back on all the times he'd not received a prompt return of texts or phone calls, or the times she'd been sick - always with a "sinus infection" or "the flu" or a "just a summer cold". It made his stomach turn to think of the possibility that Andrew kept her sick on purpose. Shaking off the thoughts for the moment, Sam poured the boiling water into the mug, added the tea bag, and glanced around the kitchen for just the right spot as he asked, "Want me to let it steep for awhile?"

"Yes, please," Jane called back.

And before he returned to the living room, Sam rocked up on his toes a bit, tossing the hex bag behind the refrigerator - it would have to do.

"So is this the nightmare fuel?" Dean was asking Jane, pointing up at the bag.

"No, that'll be later," she replied, then threw some pills in her mouth, followed by a sizable gulp of water. "This one I can power through, see?" She pointed at the pump, to the numbers displayed on the chamber; they meant nothing to Dean, and it showed on his face. "It'll be done in under an hour," she told him, following up with a swig of the antacid, another three pills, and another gulp of water.

Sam came up behind the couch, and he squatted, resting folded arms on the back. "Tea'll be ready in a few. Do you need anything else before we go?" he asked.

"We going?" Dean countered.

"I'm great. Thank you, though," Jane replied with a smile, turning her head and giving Sam a quick kiss on the cheek. "You're the best."

"Oh, he _is?_ " Dean asked.

Sam grinned.

"You're _both_ the best," Jane clarified, leaning over and giving Dean his own kiss on the cheek. "Absolutely my favorites, of all my siblings."

"Uh-huh, sure," Dean said with a chuckle, then stood. "Okay, well, if Andrew's still MIA for too much longer, let us know. We'll come back."

"Oh, he'll turn up. He always does. I probably have a voice mail, I'll check it in a little while." Jane rose, followed them to the threshold, and they exchanged goodbyes. Sam and Dean heard her lock and dead bolt the door behind them. After they were down the stairs and crossing the parking lot to the Impala, Dean spoke.

"You catch those labels on the bottles? Were the ones in the kitchen like that, too?"

Sam nodded.

The labels were not from a pharmacy, likely just made with the printer Dean had seen. Days and times and the number of pills to be taken were in capitalized bold typeface. That was all - no names, no further instructions, nothing.

"There were a couple normal ones in the medicine cabinet - for nausea, inflammation, anxiety. That one had the shrink's name on it. Otherwise, all from ol' Dr. Morpheus," Dean continued.

"I don't think that's the comparison you're going for."

"You know what I mean. Get your housewarming gift in a good spot?"

"Unless they move the refrigerator for some reason, yeah. You find anything else?"

"Other than the fact that Andrew's cover involves being the most boring person that ever lived? Zip."

They climbed in the car, both silent. As Dean pulled out of the apartment complex, Sam glanced over at him.

"So why _not_ any Lauper?"

.

* * *

.

CAPE BRETON ISLAND, NOVA SCOTIA 

.

Castiel sat at the diner's bar, an untouched hot chocolate in front of him. He was back in his usual garb, albeit topped with a parka versus his typical trench and the addition of a toboggan covering his head. Crowley took notice of both as he walked in, the tiny bell on the door announcing his arrival. Sitting on the stool next to him, Crowley waited on Castiel to stop staring down at the melting marshmallows in his mug. When he didn't, the demon spoke.

"Nice attempt at blending in, though the shoes aren't selling it."

No reply.

"Shall we dispense with the 'come here often' and 'fancy seeing you here' and 'we have to stop meeting like this'?"

"Have you by chance touched the girl?"

The server, of course, had just walked up to take Crowley's order and was visibly taken aback, as were the two elderly women in the nearby booth. Not that it mattered, their proximity, as Castiel's baritone ricocheted around the mostly-empty space.

So Crowley adjusted his expression to one matching the locals', politely asking, "Why, to whom could you be referring?"

"Did she happen to touch _you?_ Shake your hand? Slap you?"

"I shake many hands. Taken a few slaps, too. You're going to have to be more specific."

Once more, no response.

Now Crowley was more interested in what was going on with his frenemy than convincing the locals this was not _To Catch a Predator: Canadian Edition_ , so he looked to the server and pointed to Castiel's hot chocolate. "Could I possibly get one of these, as well?"

The server nodded, eyeing them both for a moment, before walking to the back kitchen area.

"I'm troubled," Castiel said, looking over at Crowley.

"You must be. You've called on _me_." The demon glanced around. "Interesting locale. I take it the boys aren't to be involved?"

"They're already involved. But I need an opinion of a... of a..."

"A like-minded soul?" volunteered Crowley.

This earned him a frown, but not a denial. The server returned, setting a mug in front of Crowley. He lingered.

"No marshmallows?" asked Crowley.

The server eyed them again before returning to the kitchen.

"You know who I mean," Castiel said, then lowered his voice. "Jane."

Crowley considered his reply, opted to keep it simple. "Yes."

"And did she, by chance-"

"We had a lovely rooftop tête-à-tête. We happened to shake hands, yes. Why?"

"Did you notice anything... unusual?"

"Why?" Crowley repeated.

Castiel went silent once more, and Crowley angled himself away, turning his attention to the small dish of marshmallows that had just been placed in front of him. He carefully dropped them into the dark brown liquid, one at a time.

_Plop._

_Plop._

_Plop._

Castiel sighed, now turning fully towards Crowley, saying, "I presume you've been looking into Jane, as well as her associate, Andrew. Their involvement with the Winchesters justifies my interest; I do not know yours, nor is it my immediate concern. At present, I find myself to be... I seem to have reached my limits. With my... investigation."

Crowley sipped, considering this before he replied. "And you want to see if my limits extended a little further than yours?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Cas. You're so glum. Has someone been bullying you about how far your limits can extend? Well, they're just jealous, is all."

"There's something... _off_ about her. About both of them. Sam and Dean recognize the need to learn more about this Andrew person. However, they are content regarding their relationship with Jane."

"And you're not?"

Castiel shook his head slightly. "I am not." The angel paused for a several moments, so Crowley carried on with his sipping, keeping an eye on his companion via the mirror lining the wall they faced til Castiel added, "I believe it would behoove us both to share information. I'm willing to share some with you. Right now. If you agree."

Crowley cut his eyes over to Castiel. "We playing poker, here, Cas? Or more like go fish?"

"That depends on you."

"Ohhh, I doubt that."

"Try me."

 _Intriguing_ , Crowley thought to himself, then asked, "Her condition - do you have any diagnoses?"

Another slight shake of the head from Castiel. "Go fish. Do you have any background on Andrew?"

"Go fish. Have you managed to gather any, shall we say, scientific data?"

Silence.

"Ah," said Crowley, turning on his stool, watching as Castiel took the first sip of his now lukewarm cocoa, waiting patiently for the dodge of an answer he suspected, and wasn't let down.

"Inconclusive. She _is_ ill, however I'm unable to determine what precisely is the issue."

"Issues," corrected Crowley.

Castiel looked at him, and this time directly in the eye.

"Here's the fishies in my pond, Wings: Jane Ripley, born the second of November, 1979, apparently the ward of one A.W. Ripley until age five, at which point she was adopted by a family in Alabama. Born so premature and sickly, I'd have thought one of your brethren would've had to intervene to keep the little kitty purring. But seems she's got something better in her corner."

Castiel was only somewhat taken-aback that Crowley's investigation had yielded essentially the same information his had on Jane, though he could not tell at the moment if Crowley knew she was Dean and Sam's sister.

"Fine, my turn: got any idea why, when my guys showed up to ransack her psychiatrist's office today, it was---"

"Gutted?" Castiel cut in. "Go fish."

"They've seen you too, you know. My spies. Before I told them to stop barking up Dr. Supermodel's tree, spotted you following him. From what they've told me, seems you've been pulling a Meg, scrubs and all." Castiel did not deny it, so Crowley went on. "If you've not gotten anything useful from your time playing doctor with him, tell me this: why haven't you gone the inception route? Taken a walk around his dreams?"

"Why haven't _you?_ Have you attempted it?"

Now it was Crowley who remained silent, tossing a marshmallow into his mouth.

"If Andrew sleeps at all, it must be very limited and sporadic. I haven't been able to... dial in on him yet," Castiel volunteered, but hesitated briefly before adding, "I've been unable to reach Jane, as well."

"Seems neither of us have gotten any nibbles on that line."

Castiel's eyes narrowed, surprised that Crowley had confessed as much. Yet he felt a sense of relief that he was not the only one running in circles. Even if that sense came from his long-time nemesis.

"I have a proposition," Crowley said slowly. "I'll admit I've had my people run some testing---"

"On what?" Castiel interrupted.

"They _do_ take out their trash, you know. My getting a kick out of having my underlings go dumpster-diving notwithstanding, discarded items can tell you a lot about a person."

This part was actually true; however, Crowley opted not to share that the trash from Jane and Andrew's apartment was mysteriously absent of anything showing they had touched it at all. No fingerprints. No skin cells. No DNA. Not even the _hair_ held any indication it came from an actual person. And the demon was _not_ about to share the results he'd received from the testing on the cigar. That was for another time. If at _all_.

"So what _did_ you learn?" asked Castiel.

"That they don't recycle and they fold their cereal boxes before throwing them out."

Castiel gave him a _look_.

"The point _is_ , if you have samples which could potentially yield something of actual use, I have connections. To a very discreet collective who specialize in very unique anatomical advancements. They'll be able to determine what he's done to the girl."

"You suspect Andrew's done something to her, too."

"He's not trying to kill her, he's had plenty of opportunity to do it. So, he's either trying to take her apart..." Crowley trailed off, waiting on the angel to fill in the rest.

"...or make her into something else," Castiel concluded, his expression turning to one of grave concern.

"C'mon, Cas. Let's you and I go fishing."

.

* * *

.

Jane awoke with a start to the loud beeping of the pump.

She had turned on the TV and stretched out on the sofa, but apparently had dozed off. Jane frowned as she hit the silence button on the pump - her infusion had completed, but the beeping was actually the low battery alarm. Slightly groggy, she glanced around. She hadn't remembered even turning off the TV or the lamps, and it was so dim in the apartment, the only light source came from the setting sun peeking through the thin curtains.

Standing, she stretched and yawned. After turning off the pump completely, she disconnected the long portion of the tubing from herself and followed the pump's cord to find it was indeed plugged in. Just then, the lights flickered back on and the TV came to life - the power must have cut out briefly.

Yawning again, Jane felt a chill come over her and she rubbed her arms briskly. Padding into her bedroom, she opened one of the small drawers of the chest and moved around a few pairs of socks. She paused - thinking she heard something, she glanced towards the bathroom. The sink's faucet dripped. She'd have to get Andrew to look at it when he got home. Shutting the drawer, not finding what she wanted, Jane looked around, resuming the rubbing of her arms. Leaning on the mattress, she lowered herself to the floor, getting on her knees and looking under the bed.

A shadow crossed over her.

Rising, Jane had a tiny smile of satisfaction on her lips as she perched on the side of the bed, pulling two long, woolly socks on over her tights and up to her knees. She stood again, picking up the quilt on her bed, wrapping it around herself. Walking into the kitchen, she stuck her finger into the mug of tea Sam had left steeping for her earlier, confirming her assumption - cold as ice. Jane turned to the microwave, opening the door and setting the mug inside. Pausing, she glanced to her right, through the entryway, thinking she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

Nothing.

Pressing the quick setting button for two minutes, Jane wrapped the blanket more tightly around her, when suddenly the microwave uttered a series of beeps. Then the display went blank. Frowning, Jane pushed the button again, only for the display to flash a mish-mosh of random lines where the time should've been, squawking another round of beeps as it went completely blank. Jane gave the side of the microwave a sharp _whap_ with her hand. The beeping ceased, followed by the TV and lights flickering off.

"Uuunngghh," Jane grunted in frustration, rolling her eyes. Turning, she lifted the lid to the kettle - still enough water left, so she replaced the lid and and flicked the dial for the burner.

_CLICK-CLICK_

The gas flame came to life, and Jane adjusted it to the proper strength. Now she made her way back to the sofa, tucking her legs under her as she sat, and picking up her bag from the coffee table. She pulled out her phone - and the power flickered back on.

"Make up your miiiind," Jane said aloud in a faux-operatic voice, grabbing the remote in her free hand and lowering the TV's volume. _A Nightmare on Elm Street_ was playing. She'd put it on a movie channel before she'd fallen asleep but hadn't realized what was on, and was thankful for it. No telling what havoc _that_ sort of thing could bring to her sleep.

Looking back at her phone, she saw Andrew had texted. He was on a roll and would be at the lab til late into the night, but she should call him if she needed him to come home sooner. A shiver passed over her as she returned his text, and she snuggled down into the quilt even more. The living room curtains moved with the breeze.

And so did the bedroom curtains, as the bottom of the window slowly eased away from the sill.

.

* * *

.

Dean and Sam hadn't made much progress into their return home. They'd stopped for burgers not long after leaving Jane's, actually going in and sitting down, and were still picking at leftover fried pickles in the car as they talked. Dean was driving leisurely and Sam didn't mind spending the extra time with him - they were getting along better than they had been in recent past. And if he were honest with himself, perhaps further than just _recent_.

"Ann and Nancy are rock goddesses, it's not even a debate," Dean was saying.

"Okay, then, that's the one," Sam replied. He took a final sip from his straw, set the cup between his feet, and pulled out his phone.

"She didn't call, did she?" asked Dean.

"No, I'm going to see if I can find anyone still selling cassettes _not_ at a flea market or yard sales."

Sam grinned at the side-eye he received, unable to resist the tiny dig on Dean. They had decided to get some new music for the car to surprise Jane next time she rode with them. He had a feeling that jack was going to have to make a comeback, but he'd give tracking down tapes his best shot.

The speakers abruptly popped and hissed as the radio began to cut in and out.

"What the..." Sam muttered, frowning at his phone - the screen flickered and the browser shut down, followed by the phone turning off completely.

Both brothers noticed the street light they'd been slowly coasting up to as it turned yellow now flashed to green, back to yellow, then to red, finally beginning to flicker on all colors erratically.

Icicles went up Dean's spine.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he braked, quickly threw the shifter into reverse, backing up the car. Shifting again, then gunning the engine and sailing a bit into the intersection, Dean whipped the car around and drifted into the lane next to them, hitting the gas and sending the Impala barreling back the way they'd come. He had executed the maneuver so fast, it actually threw Sam into the passenger door.

The handful of cars that had been gingerly attempting to navigate around each other thanks to the erratic traffic lights didn't even have time to honk. But they soon slowed to stops, a few bumping into others as they powered off. Following suit, the Impala's radio, then the engine, also shut down.

Dean switched the ignition off, tried to start it again. Sam craned his head to look out the back window. The traffic lights had gone black.

Suddenly, the next crank brought the car's engine back to life. Dean slammed his foot down, flooring it, tossing Sam askew again. The wheels squealed a bit as Dean swerved onto the shoulder briefly, passing a station wagon in order to get ahead of it before the road switched back into two lanes.

"Jeez!" Sam exclaimed, righting himself in his seat - and he felt himself growing cold when he saw the look on Dean's face.

"What's wrong?"

"This has happened before."

"What do you mean?"

Dean was silent, his frown lines working overtime.

"Dean!"

"That night in California."

"What?"

"How do you think I knew to come back!?"

A look of confusion, followed closely by realization, and finally horror passed over Sam's face. "When Jess..." he whispered, but didn't even bother to finish his thought - he was feeling too much to think.

The next set of traffic lights were flashing red, but luckily no one was there to see Dean not pause in the slightest.

"Come on, come on," Sam was muttering, pressing the power button on his still-dead phone over and over again. He slammed it on the dashboard, then turned to Dean, demanding, "Gimme yours!"

_"It's gonna be the same!"_

.

* * *

.

Jane had laid her phone on the coffee table, then turned to the pump, raising the small lever to pop open the tubing chamber. She planned to go ahead and get her overnight infusion set up, in the hopes that the electricity would have sorted itself out in enough time to power the pump; if not, she'd have to call Andrew to brainstorm on what to do. It pained her to think he'd have to stay up all night with her, manually pushing syringes of the medication on a timed schedule.

The power flickered off again.

"Lordy," she muttered in annoyance. Raising up on one knee to boost herself a bit higher, Jane was reaching up to lift the empty fluid bag from the hook when the quilt slipped off her left shoulder.

And it was when she went to move it back that she froze.

Jane saw it. There in the corner, where darkness had fallen, just beyond the line of light cutting across the carpet from the now nearly-set sun, something had moved. A _large_ something. Jane held her breath, not knowing what to do; her phone was just out of reach, and the door seemed very far away.

The apartment was pin-drop quiet.

The bathroom faucet dripped.

A different sound, like someone squeezing an inflated balloon, stretching the rubber.

The kettle began to whistle faintly.

The electricity came back with a fury then. The lamps and lights went from nothing to glowing so brightly that the bulbs in the overhead of the kitchen popped in succession. Sound blared loudly from the TV, Krueger's laugh overlapping his victim's screams. The microwave's beeping resumed, growing ever faster. Even the previously dead pump came back to life, a series of numbers and symbols flashing nonsense across its displays.

Adrenaline kicked in, and Jane hadn't even bothered to try to get a good look at whatever was there, she just bolted, partially stumbling over the quilt that had now fallen beyond her knees, knocking the IV pole over completely in her scramble to reach the door. As her hand was barely on the doorknob, the power cut off again and she involuntarily gasped. It seemed now that _everything_ was off, including the gas, because even the tea kettle went silent. The room was totally dark; the sun had retreated completely, leaving her utterly alone. Every bit of her was trembling, but not all of it was nerves - her hand couldn't grip the knob.

That squeaking rubber sound, a little closer now, behind her, though she hadn't heard footsteps.

While it seemed useless, seeing as how her brain didn't want to communicate with her hands, Jane kept her fingers against the door handle as she slowly turned around. All she had left on her side was possibly endearing herself to the intruder, talking to them, seeing what it was they wanted, concentrating on staying calm and rational.

But then the lights came back, just the lights, dim at first, slowly increasing in brightness.

And it hit Jane like a truck that there was no rationality to be had.

There, smack in the middle of the room, positioned directly in front of her, it stood, statue-still. It was human-like in build, seven feet tall if it was an inch, gangly limbs, slightly stooped posture, and a wide stance. No eyes, no auditory canals - or _ears_ , for that matter - no nostrils, no mouth. If it had distinct digits, Jane couldn't tell, because it looked as if someone had plucked it up by the feet and dipped it into a vat of paint or fondant or plastic. Or maybe something like rubber.

Jane would later describe its color as "infection". When pressed, she would explain there were some infections that would eat at the body, not just inside but eating outwards. Drainage would pour out of wounds, out of orifices, and some clinicians were so adept and experienced they could identify them by their smell before they'd even entered a patient's room. And this color reminded her of some of the worst. Something that began as off-white, festering into a putrid sort of yellowed-grey.

The light stopped its progress, began to recede, then disappeared.

.

* * *

.

As Dean and Sam arrived at Jane's, pulling right up to the curb by the sidewalk leading to the stairs, the car stalled and shut down completely again. They both had their hands on the door handles when the locks simultaneously slammed down. After sharing a quick look, they started tugging furiously.

"Damn it!" Dean shouted, bringing his hands down on the steering wheel.

Sam tried to roll down his window - no joy - but something occurred to him. Leaning across Dean, he tapped an index finger against the plastic covering the missing driver's side window. It shimmied. They glanced at each other. Now Sam thumped the plastic, hard. It gave a little more. Dean reached up, ripping it away from the duct-taped window frame, climbing out quickly, with Sam right behind him.

They joined each other at the back of the car, but both stopped cold, staring down at the trunk. They were thinking the same thing. As predicted, the key wouldn't turn, and it took both men to pull it back out.

Dean darted back around to the driver's side, leaning headfirst into the car, reaching under the seat and coming back with a handgun.

"Are you sure?" Sam asked.

Dean's response was to blow out the lock of the trunk.

The Impala shuddered, and the lid slowly lifted a few inches. Dean passed the handgun to Sam, opening the trunk the rest of the way, followed by the weapons compartment. He pulled out a shotgun, stuffed a handful of shells in his pocket, and looked to Sam.

Without another word, they stormed up the stairs.

.

* * *

.

The apartment was still.

Jane gasped and jumped as she heard what she could've sworn was a gunshot close by. Now the lights flickered on for what would be the final time, and Jane was horrified to realize the creature was directly in front of her, hovering, so close she turned her head to the side, pressing it against the door. The creature took the opportunity to lean in further, making slight movements with its head as if it were sniffing her, breathing her in. If it _could_ sniff. If it _did_ breathe.

Jane exhaled shakily, a whimper escaping with it. She closed her eyes tightly. Her weakened fingers slipped from the door knob. She shifted her left foot and managed to move herself what seemed like only a minuscule amount to the side of the door when the creature suddenly planted its palms on either side of her head, against the wall, halting any further movement. Startled, Jane's eyes popped open - so it _did_ have fingers. Its hands were huge, the fingers splayed wide. Gooey skin thinned out and stretched between each digit like webbing.

And it also had a mouth, she learned, that odd stretching sound causing Jane to cut her eyes over, the involuntary reaction of a curious mind. The hole opened up with that same viscous membrane pulling across the chasm. Jane's eyes grew even wider as it expanded so far that she was sure whatever it had that counted as a jaw must've unhinged. The stringy slime thinned to the point of breakage in the center, snapping back to the top and bottom, retracting seamlessly. To her disgust, Jane saw a pointed tongue, the same color as the the rest of it, begin to emerge. She tried to twist her head even further away, clamping her eyes shut again. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't seem to make herself, and what would be the point anyway, who would hear her?

It bent its head down, keeping its hands planted, trapping her in place, then placed its tongue on the side of her neck. Jane shuddered. Slowly the tongue dragged up, around her jaw, over her cheekbone, up to her temple.

"JANE!"

"JANE! ARE YOU IN THERE!?"

Pounding on the door caused the creature to remove its tongue from her face, immediately standing up straight, turning its head away from Jane and towards the sound.

Outside, Dean was loading the shotgun. Sam stopped his pounding, beginning to check how many bullets were in the handgun's magazine, when he stopped, having thought he heard something. And his eyes widened. Noting Sam's perplexed look, Dean snapped the barrel into place and turned, following his gaze.

There, further down the landing, as if she'd just come down the stairs from the next floor up, a woman in leggings, a sports top and running shoes was frozen as she rounded the railing, in mid-jog. Even her jostling ponytail was locked in position. A phone was secured in a holder wrapped around a bicep, one ear bud in place, the other in one of her hands, en route to the opposite ear. The brothers could hear music faintly emanating from it. Looking to the side in unison, Sam and Dean noticed that one of Jane's across-the-way neighbors had been exiting his apartment, halfway out the door, one hand still on the knob as the other clutched a trash bag. Lights were on in his apartment.

Sam quickly pulled out his phone, glanced, turned it to face Dean - it was working again. And both had two questions steam-rolling through their minds:

 _What the hell is going on?_ and _Why aren't we frozen, too?_

"Jane? Jane, if you can hear me, if you're near the door, get away. Move away, _NOW!_ " Sam yelled, cocking and raising the handgun, ready to have Dean's back.

Dean pumped the shotgun and put it against his shoulder.

At that sound, the creature removed its hands, taking a several long strides backward and to the side, and a guttural noise, almost like an angry cat, emerged from it.

Jane understood what that sound meant, too, and the creature jerked its head towards her as she finally found her voice.

_"SHOOT!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	5. A History of Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past comes to visit as Jane shares more about hers when she and Dean and Sam encounter someone from it; Mose thinks on how he first met the Winchesters; the brothers are forced into some memories of their own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/2017 Author's Note: After some debate, we [myself & my friend who commissioned this story] have decided that between Jo, Jody, and now the upcoming S13 recurring character said to be called "Sister Jo", there's far too many of them. So we're changing the name of the person from Jane's past - for newcomers, this will mean nothing to you. To loyal readers, worry not - we've chosen an alternative that will integrate itself fairly seamlessly. We think. We hope. Carry on - Nash.

* * *

 " _To be able to forget means sanity."― Jack London: author,_ _The Star Rover_

* * *

 .

Jane slid to the floor, covering her ears at the blast of the shotgun.

Dean shot the bolt lock, and Sam kicked in the door, rounding it quickly, Dean right behind him and plowing straight ahead.

The thing had flinched, apparently hit by some of the shards of splintered wood, and had backed away towards the corner where it had hidden. Dean pumped, aimed, shot again. His eyes widened a bit as the thing seemed to absorb the round but, seemingly deterred, it immediately launched itself through the partially-open living room window.

Satisfied that nothing was on the left side of the room, Sam had dropped to his knees to check on the cowering Jane. Dean, glancing into the kitchen and the bedroom and seeing nothing, readied another round and moved on into the office, to sweep both it and the bathroom.

"Are you--- oh, shi---"

Sam had barely begun to ask Jane if she was alright when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and nearly lost his balance. Another one of the creatures had just come through her bedroom doorway. He twisted and began shooting while still in his crouched position, then continued to fire as he rose to his feet, stalked towards it, backing it up, though like the first it also seemed to be absorbing every bullet fired. Following its counterpart's lead, it leapt through the window. Sam looked out - nothing but shattered glass and bits of wooden frame on the grass below. Whatever it was, it was _fast_.

Dean had exited the office in a rush. He saw Sam, gun still raised, scanning out the window - and then his eyes fell on Jane. "Sam!"

Sam turned, followed Dean's gaze, and blanched immediately.

"Get her inhaler," Dean ordered, setting the shotgun on the table and kneeling beside Jane. "Gotta breathe for me, kiddo," he said quietly, helping her lean against the wall.

Jane's eyes looked as if she could barely keep them open, and croaky gasps emerged from her parted lips, but they were too few and far between for Dean's liking.

Sam bolted into the kitchen, grabbed an inhaler from the basket of medication, back in what felt like a heartbeat, dropping to his knees beside Dean. "Here," he said, and tried to hand it to Jane, but her hands were limp.

"Okay, hold her mouth open," said Dean, and Sam placed his hands on either side of Jane's jaw as Dean shook the inhaler, then put it between her lips and pressed down to release the fine mist.

Nothing.

This time Dean took his other hand and laid his palm right in the middle of her chest, giving her rib cage a solid push inward and letting go just before he pressed the inhaler. The croak that then emerged seemed more robust, but to their horror, Jane's eyes now fluttered closed and she began to slump to the side. The brothers briefly froze, then Sam grabbed Dean's arm and leapt up.

"In the fridge," he said over his shoulder, running back into the kitchen. Throwing open the refrigerator door, he yanked out the produce drawer with the trays of filled syringes. He came back with the entire lot, kneeling next to Dean once more.

Dean looked from the medication to Sam, a pinched expression on his face, asking, "What, you wanna do eeny, meeny, miny, moe?!"

"It was the blue one, right? What Andrew gave her, that first time at the bunker?" asked Sam. Shifting around the syringes til he saw the sky blue-tinted one he sought, he held it up for Dean to see.

"She just had a whole bag with that color," Dean pointed out.

They both looked down at Jane.

She was completely still.

Dean didn't hesitate then, grabbing the syringe from Sam's hand, twisting the cap off, attaching it to one of the ports and pushing, and it was almost empty, when ---

_"Uhhhhhhh!"_

Jane inhaled a massive amount of air, torso arching off the floor, then flopped back down. Blinking rapidly, she lurched to the side, her head and shoulders turning with her. She was coughing almost violently, the action causing her entire body to jerk. Sam had just helped Dean get Jane positioned completely onto her side, when suddenly the TV came on, the kettle began to whistle, and the beeping from the pump and microwave resumed.

"Turn that junk off," Dean said gruffly, his hand still on Jane's back, patting it like he would a choking child, waiting as the ferocity of the coughs slowly eased. Glancing over his shoulder, he extended his foot behind him, pushing the door closed, as well as it could with the shotgunned latch and frame."If the neighbors are turning back on, too---"

"Got it," Sam said, already up and moving, looking around and spotting the remote control on the floor. He clicked the power button, then yanked the pump's cord from the wall. In the kitchen, after turning off the stove, Sam had reached behind the microwave, unplugging it, when he spotted something out of the kitchen window. "Dean...."

"What?"

"Look."

Momentarily satisfied that Jane was breathing well enough for him to leave her side, Dean quickly joined Sam at the kitchen window and his heart dropped into his stomach.

Jane's apartment building was to the back of the complex and up on a hill. The window-facing side didn't have much of a flat area of land running along it, perhaps a few meters, then it sloped off into a large wooded area. And there along the tree line, they were horrified to see familiar shapes emerging, easily twenty of the creatures. Several were methodically crawling up the slope, headed their way.

"There's a laundry basket in the office," Dean informed Sam, who understood exactly what was meant.

Moving even faster than before, Sam retrieved the basket. In the bathroom, he shoved all the pill bottles from the cabinet shelves into it, taking only enough time to make sure they hit their target. Grabbing the pump, he unscrewed it from the IV pole and added it to the lot, then returned to the kitchen once again for the rest of Jane's medication.

Meanwhile, Dean removed the syringe and tossed it aside. He frowned; they had to get moving, and _now_. One hand behind her head and one in the middle of her back, he hoped he wasn't being too rough as he pulled the now-groggy Jane into a sitting position.

"Wha..." she muttered, trying to focus on his face.

"Can you help me get you into this chair?" Dean asked.

She nodded, and together they got her feet positioned. Wrapping her arms around his neck and following a three-count,  he rose and pulled her upright, then one pivot later, she was plopping down into the chair. Dean glanced around, and he grabbed the green rain boots.

"Lift," he instructed, helping her raise one leg after another, putting them on her feet.

Sam returned, plopping the laundry basket onto the table, and quickly rooted through the storage containers, throwing in packages of tubing, saline syringes, anything he could put his hands on that looked important.

"N-need to call Andrew... s-somebody broke in..." Jane murmured.

"We will," Sam assured her. 

Dean snatched her coat off the arm of the sofa, lifting her left, then right arm, putting on the coat without bothering to ask her to help. Back over to sofa, he double-checked for anything that looked important. Spotting the cloth bag Jane always seemed to have with her, he threw it over his shoulder. "Got everything?" Dean asked Sam, helping Jane into a standing position, looping her arm across his shoulders and his arm around her waist.

Sam nodded, picking up the shotgun and putting it in Dean's outstretched free hand, when suddenly they were startled by a sharp, slap-like sound behind them.

A large hand with long, webbed fingers was planted against the kitchen window.

Sam hoisted the laundry basket onto one hip. Dean put his finger on the shotgun's trigger and gave Sam a nod. Taking the lead, Sam slowly pulled on the door, letting momentum swing it open, then quickly retrieved the pistol from his back waistband, edging out onto the open-air landing.

"Oh!"

Across from them, Jane's neighbor - the portly, balding man in the sweater vest who'd just emerged from his frozen state - dropped the trash bag he'd been holding as he exited his apartment, raising his hands above his head.

"It's okay, it's okay," Sam told him, lowering his gun and putting the safety back on. Returning it to his waistband, he added, "Someone broke into our sister's apartment."

"Oh my god!" cried the jogger who had been coming down the stairs, yanking an earbud out and rushing over, her eyes growing wide at the sight of the shotgunned door. Then her eyes fell on Dean and Jane, who had just emerged. "Do I need to call an ambulance?"

"No, we're taking her," Dean answered immediately, beginning to make his way down the stairs with Jane.

"Well, can I call the police for you?" asked the neighbor, finally lowering his arms.

"That would be great, thanks," Sam replied, hurrying down the stairs behind Dean.

"I'll look after the apartment for you," the neighbor called down to them, but they had already put Jane and her things into the backseat of the Impala and were climbing in, Dean cranking the engine and mostly drowning him out.

"That's just awful," the jogger commented, looking again into the apartment. "No _way_ I'm working out now, what if they're still around? That apartment doesn't even have a balcony, does it? I mean, how in the world did---"

She had stopped speaking as the man placed two fingers on her forehead. Now seemingly oblivious to what she'd just witnessed, the jogger calmly inserted her earbuds. She raised her arm, pressed a button on her watch, then stared at it as she felt her neck with fingers of the opposite hand, measuring her pulse. Satisfied, she briskly jogged down the stairs, down the sidewalk and away from the building.

The man left the trash bag where he'd dropped it, entering Jane's apartment and glancing around. Walking to the broken window, he surveyed the area outside, finding nothing. But before turning away, he stopped, his eyes landing on one of the shards of glass still in the frame. A droplet of a waxy, rubbery substance was adhered to the pointed end. His eyes narrowed. Plucking it from the shard, he studied it for a moment. Then he closed his eyes briefly and sighed, placing it in his pocket.

He closed the door as he left and it was now intact, both the handle lock and the bolt lock clicking into place, seemingly of their own volition. Entering the apartment across the way, he walked towards the sofa. A person identical to him in appearance was lying down, snoring. He now pulled a phone from his pocket, dialed a number, and by the time he looked into the mirror that hung above the sofa, he was back to his old self. Admiring his reflection, he fussed a bit with his hair and then gave himself a wink, turning away as the recipient of his call answered.

"Gabriel? What's wrong?"

Andrew's tense voice practically climbed through the line.

"Nothing. Well, something. But don't--- Ah." Gabriel hung up the phone, seeing as how he'd turned straight into Andrew's broad chest. Taking a step back, he gave the other man a pointed _look_. "And this is how we get caught."

"I was alone." Andrew glanced around. "Whose---"

"Your neighbor's place. You've been making friends everywhere you go like always, I see," Gabriel commented dryly. "So Jane had an unexpected visit."

Panic immediately swept over Andrew's face.

"She's fine, the dynamic duo saved the day."

"Why weren't you---"

"I was on my way, then I got a little frozen, but I'm okay, too, thanks for asking."

Andrew crossed his arms and planted an _I'm not playing around_ expression on his face.

"And here's why I think you weren't alerted," Gabriel continued, pulling the tiny ball of now-hardened goo from his pocket.

Andrew took it, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. His observation was as brief as the archangel's and he squeezed, turning it to dust. Then he brought his eyes back to Gabriel, who shrugged.

"Seems like you-know-who's further along than we thought."

"Stop referring to him like he's some fairy tale."

"If he _was_ , you'd have handed him his ass already. But since we don't know what ego-tripped moniker he's going by now, I'm open to suggestions."

And without further thought, Andrew answered -

"Evil."

 

* * *

.

About twenty miles down the road - which Dean seemed to have covered at light speed - Jane finally came around, the wind whipping in from the broken window apparently ushering her from her trance.

And then she became somewhat frantic.

Pawing around her, she started asking, "Where's my bag? Where's my phone? I gotta ---" She'd cut herself off, as Sam had turned around in his seat and grabbed her flailing hands. Jane looked at him and blinked a few times, then slowly began to take in her surroundings, appearing more than a little confused.

"You're okay," he promised. "You're safe."

She stared at him for a moment before speaking again. "Someone broke into the apartment."

Sam nodded. He let go of one of her hands, then reached down to the floorboard, picking up her bag. "Here."

Jane looked blankly at the bag as he set it in her lap.

"Want me to find your phone?" he offered.

She nodded.

Sam released her other hand, and dug through the bag. "It's not here."

Jane's nervousness immediately returned. "B-but we need to call the police, a-and Andrew, and ---"

"It's taken care of," Sam told her calmly, taking her hands again. "Your neighbor's calling the cops and I got Andrew's voice mail, but I told him all about it, that you were going to stay with us tonight."

Jane nodded again, even though she still looked lost, and in a small, almost tearful voice she asked, "But where did it go?"

Sam wasn't entirely sure she was just referring to the phone.

"You must've dropped it when you called us," Dean lied.

"I did?"

"Yeah, you, uh... you said you thought you heard somebody breaking in, and we booked it back to you," Sam said, continuing Dean's narrative.

"Did you shoot somebody? Do I remember gunshots?"

"Well, we had to bust down your door, that was pretty loud," Sam offered as explanation.

Now tears _did_ well up in her eyes as pieces of memory seemed to come back. "I couldn't... I couldn't get the d-door open, my hands... a-and that person... that person looked like a _monster_ , and I th-thought... I started seeing these f-flashing lights..." Jane began to shudder.

"Pull over," Sam instructed Dean.

After the car was stopped, Dean turned around in his seat and Sam got out, moving the basket to the front and climbing in the back to sit beside Jane.

"I hate this!" she shouted in frustration, looking down at her hands and flexing them, extending her fingers and then making fists, repeating the action over and over as if she were trying to wake them up.

Sam reached up, putting an arm around her as she continued.

"That stupid medicine, it was _helping_ and t-the dreams were kinda funny, and... and... a-a-and... now it's lasting all _day_ , what am I supposed to _do_ with that, I c-can't take care of myself..." Jane trailed off, tears slipping down her cheeks as she looked up at them. "I can't even tell the police what he _looked_ like because I don't _know!_ What am I supposed to do?!"

"It's okay, ssshhh," Sam said, pulling her closer and trying to comfort her, giving Dean a concerned look.

Dean returned the look in kind, and then reached down, putting a hand on Jane's knee. "What you're gonna do, right now, is come home with us. There's nothing we can do about anything that happened back there, okay? It's over. And no way we're leaving you alone. We'll stay up all night with you, we'll watch a bunch of stupid movies, we'll look at the stars - hell, we'll get drunk. Whatever you want. But we'll keep the nightmares away," he said firmly.

Jane sniffled, pulling away from Sam a bit and wiping the tears from her face with the sleeve of her coat, giving them a small nod of acceptance.

"Okay," Dean affirmed, giving her knee a squeeze before turning around and starting the car again.

He pulled the Impala back onto the road, his face now locked into a grim expression. They weren't just dealing with the mystery of Andrew; now they were dealing with something he had never seen before. And if the two were connected, Dean didn't want to even think about what his reaction would be.

What he might _do_.

Sam was relieved to see Jane's shakiness begin to dissipate. Her tears began to subside, and her breaths returned to being slow and even. He gave her a small, but sad, smile when she glanced up at him.

"You're not comfortable," Jane commented, pointing down at how his long legs were angled and scrunched behind the front seat.

"Yeah I am," Sam replied, pulling her close again.

.

* * *

.

If you asked the people in Mose's life to describe him in a word, they'd say:

"Stubborn."

"Private."

"Genius."

That first one was Dean; the second, Sam; and the third, Mose himself, and this concludes the list of people in Mose's life.

Mose was a quiet kid amongst many other rambunctious ones who seemed to be overtaking the Moseleys' house any time Dean remembered visiting. John would always want to just run in, and sometimes that worked, but if it was on a Saturday or Sunday, chances were good that a gathering of the Moseleys was taking place, for a pre-championship game on TV or just getting together after church or for someone's birthday. There was always something to gather for, to celebrate at the Moseley home.

If enough of the family were in the yard when the Impala pulled up, Dean knew it was going to be an overnight. Cousins and uncles would practically swarm the car, someone telling someone else to pop the hood and admire John's handiwork, a few claiming they taught him everything he knew. Aunts would rush to coo over Sam, clucking and _tsk_ -ing a bit about how he needed a good bath and Dean needed a haircut, before shoving an iced tea in his hand and shooing him towards the kitchen. Then they'd feed him, and he would eat until he slowly fell asleep at - or under - the table. Someone would find him, relocate him to somewhere more suitable, and Dean would be so satiated he'd never even notice.

The first time Dean saw Mose, it was after a particularly fantastic binge on a pile of ribs and three grilled corn cobs in a row, and he was groggily emerging from a nap. He was lying on a twin bed, Mose on another. The older boy was staring straight up at the ceiling, not blinking, large headphones on. They were connected to a small record player, on a nightstand between the beds. Dean waved to get his attention, but no dice.

So he pulled the plug.

And Mose wailed so loudly Dean covered his ears and dropped to the floor.

John's friend, the woman Dean knew as Missy, rushed in from somewhere, scooping the boy up, speaking in a loud but soothing voice. "Find me, baby. Follow my voice. Let's sing... _When peace, like a river..._ "

Dean had waited til they'd disappeared down the hall, then quietly plugged the record player back in. Removing the head phone jack, he jumped. The kid had been listening to... a mess. Just static, irritating scratchiness, and at full volume. Dean took the needle from the record, sat on the edge of the bed; after a second thought, unplugged the player once more before he laid back down. All was peaceful and quiet in the house again.

Dean and Mose never did talk about that day - though he did approach him the next morning, as John and his friend spoke with hushed tones in the living room. Dean was helping load up the car, Sam was playing in the grass, and Mose sat on the porch steps, staring into the distance.

"I'm sorry," Dean told him, and Mose blinked at him, then removed something from one ear - a hearing aid of some sort, if Dean had to guess.

"What?" asked Mose.

"I'm sorry about... hey, I thought only old people needed those. 'Cause their ears don't work good no more."

"Well any more," corrected Mose.

"What?"

Mose rolled his eyes. "My problem is, I hear too well," he replied, adjusting something and replacing the aid.

"Oh," said Dean. "What all do you hear?"

"Everything," Mose answered, and more solemnly than any kid should ever say anything.

"Oh," repeated Dean. After some thought, Dean sat beside him, continuing his efforts to engage. "I try to keep Sammy from hearing things sometimes. Maybe I should do that record player thing. I'll look for one next time we're at a pawn shop. But how do I get one of those records?"

Mose turned his head slowly to look at Dean. "You don't. I make it."

The staring out at nothing resumed.

But Dean nodded, assuming this was an offer of sorts - so he made an offer of his own. "I'm Dean," he said. "What's your name? My dad just calls you that weird Moseley kid."

Dean's attempt at humor most decidedly fell flat - but, if it hit any nerves, there was no indication. He only received a shrug.

"How 'bout I just call you Mose?"

Another shrug.

And that was the beginning of a friendship spanning several decades. It had been twenty years, at least, since Mose had seen Dean or Sam. He and the Winchesters possessed the same nomadic natures, though his reasons were less paranormal. He was, however, as covert, pseudonyms and all. Though not for need; for want.

Initially a band roadie, Mose had put his oversensitive ears to work, and word of mouth on festival circuits grew around the guy who could tune any instrument by ear and run the board so well there was never even a hint of reverb or feedback. Then there was freelancing across continents as the go-to audio guy - concerts, DJing, albums, dabbling in movies and TV. As time went on, Mose had become known as both quite the phenom when it came to anything A/V, and also quite the recluse. If studios had a job to be done and wanted Mose for it, they would put the word out. You did not simply call Mose; Mose would call _you_. It seemed to add mystery, and in the entertainment industry, this equaled demand.

Mose had his choice of jobs, only returning the call for things most interesting to him, and most things did not interest him. So he had time. And a tidy pile of discretionary cash. And a continued drive to discover what it was exactly that was wafting through his ears, day after day, night after night, always there, though not always easily brushed aside. He sought out the most remote, most quiet place he could and got to work. Over the years Missouri had tried to help, bless her, to no avail. He'd torn through all the medical research, all the theology, just to come up dry every disappointing time. Then, it hit him: he would crowd-source. Word of mouth, testimonials as it were, had gotten him where he was and maybe, just maybe, it would get him where he needed to be.

Which is how, in the attic of the house he was subletting in that remote area in Maine, the show was born.

"You have now entered... The Hollow!"

Shaken from his memories, Mose glanced up to see Max staring at him from behind the mic with bright eyes and a big smile. Mose had pulled his chair over to sit across from Max, on the other side of the intern's desk, listening while he recorded his own intro to use while Mose was gone.

"Huh? Yeah? That the one?" Max asked, his voice returning to its normal register.

"It was a bit... heavy," Mose replied.

"I was going for _ominous._ A little Vincent Price."

"They're already torqued up, especially the spirit-hunting types. Don't really need any more incentive."

Max nodded. "Okay, I feel you. Easier, softer."

Mose and Max had chosen six nights' worth of "best ofs", and Mose had instructed the intern to do a pre-recorded show, call some of the regulars and get them to tell their best stories, as a trial run on his new role as temporary host. The plan was for Max to use it for the seventh night's broadcast, gauge the audience reception, then he could do more "best ofs" or mini-casts the bulk of the week, for as long as Mose was gone.

The Hollow ran every night for around four hours, depending on what the audience brought to bear, but Max only worked three nights per week due to his class schedule. The idea was that he could cue up the pre-recorded shows from the dorm or from the college radio station. Max would be on his own in the attic for the live shows, the thought of that lack of control giving Mose the occasional chest pain.

Mose _did_ trust Max. More than that, he appreciated the young man's talents. The kid's voice was outstanding, made for the airwaves, and Mose knew it about ten seconds into their first phone call.

He also suspected that Max recognized him when they met for his official interview at the local coffee shop near the college, though he didn't pry. A few bloggers _had_ published speculation on who Mose was in recent years, a handful of long-lens photos popping up when paparazzi had camped outside venues, capturing him along with the musicians. They were few and far between, though perhaps not for a quick study like Max.

While the show had been helping Mose progress in his search for answers, it had rapidly become almost overwhelming. Luckily, the dean of the broadcasting program at a nearby college already knew who Mose was - they had interacted when the dean had been in a briefly popular grunge band back in the 90s. It was uncertain whether Mose's prowess in the industry or the stories he could've shared swayed the dean. Either way, Mose got his intern.

And a good one. Max had taken in everything Mose taught him like a sponge, even going back through and listening to all the past shows during his free time. He also didn't bug Mose about his public - if one could call it that - persona. The closest he'd come was several months prior, casually commenting on one of the year's hot new pop star's latest single.

"Yeah, they released it to radio today. Heard it on my way in. She sounds great, not a note out of pitch, the background singers weren't drowning her out, the music actually matched the tone of the lyrics," he'd said, sitting down at his desk and preparing for the show.

"That right?" Mose had replied, taking a sip of coffee.

"Yup. Her team must've hired somebody who liked a challenge. I just hope she's taking the magician who pulled it off with her on the road, or the live audience is gonna need to bring earplugs."

Then Max had winked at him, and Mose had barely managed to aim his spit-take away from the equipment.

But now, Max broke form and asked Mose directly. "So where _are_ you headed?"

"It wouldn't interest you," Mose replied. "Nothing to do with rescuing the mediocrity of pop music."

Max grinned at that. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow. I'll be airport hopping all day, then driving for a few hours. Just one of those things that has to be done."

"Oh, man," Max replied sympathetically, and after a brief pause, added, "I hope everything goes well. Works out. Whatever you're having to deal with."

"Yeah. Yeah, me too. Who else do we have lined up for the pre-record?"

"Well, Ed came through, of course. Couple of the CB crew said they'd call in after they're off the road and can get on a phone. Here's who's confirmed so far." Max slid a notepad across his desk to Mose as he continued, "Oh, and there was a message on the tip line, didn't leave his name, but I think I know his voice. I think it's that real intense guy, from some of your early shows - you know the story about SucroCorp and the fast food thing? I tried calling back, but I didn't know whatever password I was supposed to say and he hung up, then I couldn't get him again."

"Don't worry about that," Mose said, scanning the list. "These are good. Send it to me when you're done. You're doing it tonight?" He stood and walked over to his desk, picking up his keys.

Max nodded. "I'll get it edited tomorrow morning, get it to you that afternoon. At least you'll have something to listen to part of the way... hey, you headed out?"

"Got some errands to take care of."

Max blinked. "But the show's starting in ---"

"I'll be back before it's over," Mose said with a grin. "I have faith in you, my padawan." He walked towards the door, then stopped and turned. "And you know what? Keep on channeling Vincent. It suits you."

"Really?"

"These ears never lie."

.

* * *

.

The Winchesters had stopped for gas, Dean taking the opportunity to tape up the window again. After they were all settled and Sam had returned to his usual front seat position, they hopped back on the interstate. They were about thirty minutes out from the bunker when Jane spoke.

"Hey guys?"

"What's up?"

"Y'all grabbed a bunch of stuff, this is great," she began.

"But?" asked Dean.

"But, um, there's not a spare toothbrush at your place, is there?"

Dean glanced at Sam, who shrugged. "We'll figure something out," Dean said.

Jane's eyes narrowed. "Toothbrushes aren't a figuring-out sort of thing. Unless you have a toothbrush-maker stashed somewhere?"

"That superstore is in a couple exits," Sam pointed out.

Dean sighed. "We couldn't have thought of this at the gas station?"

"I could also use a few other ---"

"It's _one night_."

Jane rolled her eyes. Then she seemed to have a thought, and opted for a new tactic. "I would really like to make a big breakfast tomorrow, to thank y'all for all this. I make these sweet potato pancakes that are just _to die_ for..."

Dean glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.

"The exit's coming up," Sam said.

"...especially if you throw on a little hand-whipped cream, a touch of cinnamon," Jane continued, now leaning up and resting her arms on the back of the front seat.

Dean fidgeted, adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

"You're gonna need to get over," Sam advised.

"And I do this thing in the oven with brown sugar and bacon ---"

Dean's eyebrows shot up at Jane's last statement, jerking the wheel to send the Impala across two lanes of traffic, flopping Jane backwards as they sailed to the exit ramp.

.  
/ / / /  
.

In the store, Dean handed each of them a basket, then took one for himself. "We've got stuff like sugar and flour - what else?" he asked Jane.

"Well, the bacon ---"

"On it."

"Eggs? Milk? Butter? Anything else pancake-y."

Dean nodded, then pointed at Sam. "Got that?"

"Done."

Now he pointed at Jane, who acknowledged it saying, "I'll get the sweet potatoes. Maybe bananas, too, you might like my banana-chocolate chip pancakes better. So, okay, add chocolate chips to the list?"

Dean looked at Sam with his most serious of expressions. "We're not letting her leave the bunker, like, _ever_."

Jane and Sam laughed.

"We meet back here in ten," Dean instructed.

"I'll grab the toothbrush, too," Sam told her, and with that, they split up to carry out their respective missions.

And it wasn't long after, when Jane was alone in the produce area, picking up small sweet potatoes to inspect them, that she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"Hey, Calamity."

Jane stiffened. The hand in which she held the potato started to shake a bit, though not nearly for the same reasons as before. Closing her eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath, she placed the potato in her basket, exhaled slowly, and turned around. "I hate when you call me that."

"Your hair has gotten so long. Wow. You do that 'cause I liked when it was short?"

"You dressing like a teenager because of all those times I told you to grow up?"

"People wearing a kindergartner's rain boots might not wanna throw stones."

Jane's jaw tensed and her tone grew cold. "What are you doing here, Jamie?"

The man walked closer to her, casually picking up an orange from a nearby bin. He tossed it from one hand to the other as he walked. He shrugged, a grin slowly forming on his lips. "Had some shopping to do."

"In Kansas? Long way to come. They run out of oranges in Tennessee?"

Jamie took a few more steps, encroaching into Jane's personal space, the brim of his baseball cap almost touching her forehead. She could smell a hint of the cologne she'd picked out for him years ago. Her grip on the basket's handle grew tighter. "It's good to see you," he said softly. "You look great."

"Not sick, you mean," she shot back.

"It makes me happy you're not."

"What I am is none of your business anymore."

Dean had rounded the corner of the aisle next to the produce section to first see a rigid Jane with an angry expression, then after completing the turn, a stranger standing way too close.

Jane moved away, brushing up against Jamie briefly and walking around the bin, saying, "Leave me alone."

"You don't think us running into each other like this, after all this time, is a sign?" Jamie said, following after her, still tossing the orange back and forth. He chuckled. "C'mon, Calamity, that's more than just a coincidence. What would your statistics say?"

"That even after all this time, the odds are still not in your favor," Jane said, turning to face him and looking him dead in the eye. "Stop calling me Calamity. Leave me alone."

"I just wanna talk ---"

"She said to leave her alone."

Dean had come up to stand next to Jane, both his tone and his demeanor borderline threatening.

Jane took the opportunity to turn again, heading back around the produce bin and resuming her potato selection process, ignoring Jamie now that Dean had firmly cemented himself between the two of them. Jamie took a step to the side, which Dean matched. He eyed Dean up and down.

"Who's this? You finally replace tall, blonde and boring?" he asked Jane, who continued to ignore him, moving on to the bananas.

"Who're you?" Dean asked.

The slippery grin returned. "I asked first."

"Oh, me? I'm her big brother."

"Not _so_ big," he commented, despite being a wiry fellow, and closer to Jane's height than Dean's. He took a step back, looking as if he were going to pivot and attempt to walk over to her again.

But now it was Dean's face that held a grin. "Well you should get a load of the baby of the family."

A questioning look passed over Jamie's face. Sensing someone at his back, he turned around. And then he took a long gaze up at Sam, who blocked his path, expressionless.

Only briefly caught off-guard, Jamie made a scoffing sound. He tossed the orange away, holding up his palms and smirking. He stepped to the side again, this time in the opposite direction of Jane, saying, "Okay, brute squad, I can take a hint."

"Take a _hike_ ," Sam clarified for him.

"Talk to you later, Calamity," Jamie called over to Jane. "We'll catch up on old times soon."

Jane was visibly annoyed. She glanced up to watch him walk away, then turn down an aisle. As soon as he was out of sight, she seemed to relax a bit, and came over to her brothers. "We got everything?" she asked, and too brightly.

Dean looked from her to Sam, and back. "Uh, what was that?" he asked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

" _That_ was my ex," Jane replied crisply.

Sam frowned. "Did he follow you? From Tennessee? Are you kidding me?"

"Oh who the hell knows," she replied in an irritated tone, looking around Dean as if to assure herself Jamie was really gone.

"You know about this dude?" Dean asked Sam.

"I know he ditched Jane when she got sick again."

Dean looked at Jane, who met his eye and shrugged.

"Good riddance," she told him. "Five precious years of my life wasted on him that I'll never get back, but who's counting?"

Dean pondered this for a moment. "What a douche."

"The crowned _prince_ of douche," she added on with a nod.

The three walked to the check-out lanes.

"I get that some people can't handle illness... I mean, other peoples' illness," Jane commented, putting groceries on the belt. "But he just turned into somebody I didn't hardly recognize."

"Would he not do anything? I mean, to help?" Dean asked, pulling out his wallet.

"Oh, he did plenty, _loads_ of helping. He'd stay out too late, have too much to drink, help himself to too many waitresses," Jane replied, taking her empty basket and stacking it with Dean's and Sam's. "He even had the nerve to accuse me of sleeping with Andrew. I was practically emaciated at the time, my hair was falling out, I could barely sit up."

Dean stared at her, his face going from anger to shock, then back and forth a few times. He couldn't believe how casually she was saying it. Just _hearing_ it, he wanted to smash the guy's face in.

Sam gently took the wallet from Dean's hand, smiled at the cashier apologetically and zipped a card through the machine.

"Did you know about this?" Dean asked Sam, almost in an accusatory manner, as if Sam could've done anything about the situation.

"Wait for it," Sam replied calmly, taking the receipt from the cashier.

Jane grinned as she finished the story. "When he said to Andrew, 'You can have her, I bet it's like banging a pile of coat hangers', Andrew got this look in his eye I'd never seen before, haven't _since_ , and he pinned Jamie down on the hood of his car, told him to lose my number and my address. Dislocated his elbow. I thought he was gonna pee his pants. It was great."

Dean chuckled, saying, "Heh. Points to Andrew." And he actually meant it; not so boring after all, it seemed.

They gathered up the bags and walked to the car. The temperature had dropped, and clouds were blocking out most of the stars and the moonlight. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"How'd you meet that fine specimen?" Dean asked Jane as they all climbed in.

"He's another doctor who wanted to fix me," Jane replied, tone laden with snark, and Dean rolled his eyes, growing more and more accustomed to her sense of humor. "Nah, he'd moved from Indiana, we met at school. Which he dropped out of, about four courses away from a degree." She shook her head a bit. "So frustrating. Tons of potential, can't see anything through to save his life."

Rain began to fall and Dean flipped on the wipers.

"So much for stargazing," Sam commented.

"Well, there's always the getting drunk," replied Dean.

"Not for me, sorry to say," said Jane, looking over at the basket of medication.

"Alright, then," said Dean, undeterred. "Movie marathon it is."

A brief pause.

"And one shot."

"It has been a long day," chimed in Sam.

"Like, just one," agreed Jane.

"Maybe just two."

"Three, max."

 .

* * *

.

Back at the bunker, following the unloading of the groceries, they had left Jane alone in Sam's room to change into the clothes they had given her to wear. Sam had been making up one of the beds in a spare room between his and Dean's when he heard his door open across the hall. Standing and turning, he immediately started snickering.

Jane had pulled her hair up into a ponytail. She was still in her thick wool socks, barely visible under the cuffs of a pair of Dean's flannel pajama pants. On top she wore an old baseball-style Stanford shirt of his, as well as one of his hoodies, and was practically swimming in all of it. She looked about twelve years old.

Dean came down the hallway, carrying an old broken floor lamp from storage in one hand, a power drill in the other. He came to a full stop.

"Oh god," he commented, taking in her appearance. "It's a hard knock life, huh?"

"I'm very comfortable and I think I look very cute, thank-you-much," Jane replied in faux-haughtiness, and then proceeded to slip on the pant cuffs a bit as she shifted her stance. "Shoot," she muttered, giving the waistband another roll.

Sam frowned at Dean as he joined them, asking, "What did you _do?_ "

"I made an IV pole," Dean announced, setting the lamp - now featuring Sam's coat rack mounted to the top - on the ground.

Sam walked slowly around it, dumbstruck - Dean had not only removed the long, rectangular rack from the wall, he'd sloppily cut it in half, and had clearly very hastily attached all manner of scrap plywood and screws for support.

"It's ugly, but it'll work. Should hold the pump, too," Dean told Jane.

Jane had glanced over at Sam, who was still semi-circling Dean's art project, and put a hand over her mouth, hoping to smother the giggles she was developing. "It's so, _so_ great," she managed to choke out.

"Right?" Dean said proudly. "I know we've got some casters around somewhere, I can ---"

"No! No, no," Jane said, putting a hand on his arm. "Don't worry about it tonight, this'll work just fine."

Sam was looking at Dean, shaking his head slightly, bewildered. "How do you - _why_ would you - I can't ---"

"Just 'cause _you_ didn't think of it ---"

"Hey, let me have this," Jane interrupted, taking the lamp, "and I'll get set up, and let's talk about what we're going to watch, sound good?"

Sam snatched the drill from Dean's hand without a word and stalked down the hall, Jane assumed to hide it, and just before he was out of sight, they heard him speak. "I'm coming back with whiskey."

"Well, he's good for something," Dean commented, following Jane the rest of the way into the room and plopping down in Sam's desk chair. He watched as she quickly set up the pump on the lamp, followed by the medication and the tubing, then sat on the floor and leaned against the bed as she let the medicine flow through the tube. "So how do you think about... how do you talk about it without... without..."

Jane glanced over at him. "What? That stuff back at the store?" She dug into the nearby basket, shifting things to find what she needed next. "How should I talk about it?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno, I just ---"

Jane stopped what she was doing and sighed, looking back up at him and cutting him off. "We haven't known each other but a minute, but I think we're getting along pretty well, yeah?"

Dean blinked a bit at her slightly sharp tone, answering, "Yeah, sure."

"Ask me what you want to ask me. Sam knows more than you do about me, I get how that sucks, but, Dean? My life from here on out... Well, it's gonna start feeling way too short and way too long, depending on the day. And either way, I don't like the thought of spending that time with you trying to tiptoe around my feelings and me trying to put things delicately. So... just ask me. And I'll shoot you straight."

They stared at each other for several heavy moments, long enough that Sam had returned, setting the whiskey bottle and three stacked shot glasses on his desk.

"What'd I miss?" he asked cautiously, picking up on the mood of the room.

"Dean had a question," Jane answered, her tone mellow once more.

Dean cleared his throat before he spoke. "Okay. What happened last week? That prompted... this?" He pointed to the medication bag.

"The more concerning of my neurological symptoms kicked up again," Jane replied. "The occasional tremors I can deal with, but when mobility issues start, we've learned to pay attention."

"So that's not just you being cold all the time?" asked Sam.

Jane shook her head. "That's a circulation thing."

"Let her answer," Dean admonished Sam, who shot him a mildly dirty look.

"The tremors are why I dress the way I do - nothing has tiny zippers or buttons and if it does, they're oversized," Jane told them, pointing towards the clothes she'd been wearing, currently laid at the other end of the bed - they'd never noticed before, but sure enough, her skirt had no zipper and the buttons on both her cardigan and her coat were on the large side. "Awhile back, before we moved here, I was making chili for dinner. I turned off the stove, got my oven mitts on, picked up the pot to take it to the table, and when I turned - I didn't. I mean to say, my brain said _turn_ , and nothing happened."

Sam and Dean glanced at each other as Jane continued, busying herself with unwrapping a small extension tube and a fresh syringe of saline solution.

"And then I felt my shoulders go weak, then my arms, then my legs, and right before my hands gave out, I managed to call for Andrew, only by that point my _everything_ gave out, and I banged my head against the counter when I fell, knocked myself out cold." Jane moved on to running some of the saline syringe through the tubing, letting it drip into the trashcan. Then she scrunched up the sleeve of the hoodie on her left arm. "I woke up two days later with third-and-fourth degree burns on my legs and what essentially amounted to a daily anti-neurotoxin. Which worked great til last week. So now in addition to my drawerful of tights and leggings to compliment my toddler wardrobe, and a distaste for chili, I get to enjoy liquid PCP." Finished with both her prep work and her rapid-fire explanation, Jane reached into the basket, then looked up at her mildly shell-shocked brothers, holding up a pair of gloves. "Volunteers?"

They both remained silent, but Sam knelt beside her, putting on the gloves and attaching the syringe to one of the ports.

"Check for blood," Jane reminded him softly, and he nodded, doing so before attaching the extension. After flushing it through, he stood back up, tossing the gloves into the trash. They watched, remaining quiet, as she finished attaching the rest of the tubing and then climbed up on the bed, setting the rate and time on the pump. She looked up and was greeted with two deeply solemn faces. "Guys, say something, please," she prodded, but gently.

"It's just, how you talk about it," Dean began. "I know what that is, knowing you're gonna ---" Sam shot Dean a _look_ , and Dean self-corrected. " _Thinking_ you could die. And you're just not... you don't act..."

"Sad? Well, I crawled in a hole for awhile, early on." Finished with the pump, Jane shifted so that she was facing them for what she said next. "I thought all that crap was done, gone with my childhood. I had a career that was going well, I thought Jamie and I were gonna end up married, I had just found a great friend in Andrew - when _boom_ , the rug came out from under me. Jamie hung around for the first part of it, then when he starting cutting out, that hole got deeper. Really, really deep. Andrew pulled me out of it." She paused long enough to shrug. "I can think about it all day and night, but that only takes me back down."

"What keeps you out? Of the hole?" Sam asked.

"Lighter baggage," Jane answered simply. "I'm lucky to have Andrew and Dr. G, they step up and take on some of the load. Makes climbing out a hell of a lot easier." She cut her eyes over to Sam's desk, adding, "And, just occasionally, whiskey."

Taking the hint, Dean turned in his chair, lining up the shot glasses and filling them. He handed one to Jane and one to Sam, then picked up the third and held it forward.

"To lighter baggage," said Dean.

"To lighter baggage," Sam and Jane repeated, all three clinking their glasses and downing the shots.

Sam and Dean did rock-paper-scissors for who got to sprawl out on the bed with Jane, and Sam's recent losing streak was broken. In turn, Dean commandeered the remote before settling onto several pillows he'd thrown on the floor, leaning up against the bed. Clicking, he pulled up their options.

"We could marathon an old TV show," he said. "That'll last longer than a movie."

As he flicked through, Sam asked Jane, "What about Smallville? Have you seen all of it?"

"Eh, I kinda lost interest in it after season three."

"We'll put that on the 'maybe' list," said Dean, continuing to scroll.

"Oh, you know what I never watched? The Gilmore Girls reunion."

Sam shook his head. "You didn't miss anything."

"I trust your judgment," Jane replied, then let out a loud yawn. "Oh, gosh, excuse me!"

Dean tilted his head back and craned his neck, asking, "You just want me to choose something?"

"Sure. I'll perk back up in a minute."

All three were asleep in less than half an hour.

.

* * *

.

Dean awoke shivering.

He heard the rainstorm pounding down above them, and soft beeping to his right. He pulled his phone from his pocket - almost four a.m. Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and noted Jane's medicine bag was empty, the infusion completed. He held in the power button on the pump until it shut off. Dean rubbed his arms as another shiver went through him. Standing, he stretched, yawned, and when he exhaled, he was shocked to see his own breath. Now he frowned.

Looking back at the bed, Jane was curled up and facing away from him, toward the wall. Sam was out like a light, his mouth open, lightly snoring. He had one foot still planted on the floor, but had managed to throw his other leg over Dean's head to rest across Jane's legs. And Sam had also stolen part of Jane's quilt, pulled it onto himself. Dean rolled his eyes. But she didn't seem to be shivering, so he left them alone for the time being. Utilizing the glow from the TV screen, Dean made his way quietly out the door, headed to the thermostat.

Forty-five degrees.

"What the hell," Dean muttered, adjusting it to seventy. Nothing. Dean tapped it rather aggressively, then he heard the tell-tale _whomp_ of the ancient heating system cutting on.

Back in the room, Dean flicked on the furthest lamp from his sleeping siblings and located a new saline syringe. Gingerly, he guided Jane's left arm out from where it was tucked a bit under her head, and pushed up the sleeve of the hoodie til he saw where the tubing ended and her port began. He paused for a moment, thinking she felt warm, but chalked it up to the arm having been under her for so long. Disconnecting the tubing, he ran the saline through the port to give it a good rinse, tossed the empty syringe into the trash can, went to move the sleeve back down. And it was when his hand was by her wrist that he was startled - her pulse was practically flying up at his fingers, so rapidly it felt more like vibrations than beats.

Dean brought his other hand up to Jane's neck, brushing hair aside, planting his fingers just under her jaw. Alarmed at her heart rate, he moved his hand to her forehead, noting it was slightly damp with perspiration.

She was burning up.

"Jane," he said. "Jane, can you hear me?"

No response.

Pulling away the part of the blanket that was still over her, Dean was relieved to see she was breathing, only unlike earlier in the day, it was quick enough to be described as near-panting.

"Sam, wake up," Dean said, pulling the blanket the rest of the way off.

Sam didn't move, so Dean grabbed the leg that was thrown across Jane and shoved it so hard off the bed, it almost tilted the other man onto his side.

" _SAM!_ "

Dean had nearly shouted but it worked, as Sam jumped, half-snorting and half-gasping. "Wha... where?!"

"Get _up_ ," Dean ordered.

"What is it?" Sam asked, and despite still being groggy, he frowned. "Why is it freezing in here?"

"She's on fire," Dean responded, ignoring the question and trying to move pillows while sitting Jane up at the same time.

Sam reached over, putting the back of his hand to each of Jane's cheeks, cursing under his breath as he leapt off the bed. "I'll get a cold towel," he told Dean, rushing from the room.

"Find some aspirin or something," Dean called after him, then turned his attention back to Jane, who he'd gotten into some semblance of an upright position though she was still slumped forward, her chin almost touching her chest. He was struggling to get the hoodie down off her shoulders when Sam came back in with a cold, wet washcloth.

"We don't know if she can take aspirin," Sam told him, perching on the edge of the bed and tilting Jane's head back against the wall, running the cloth over her face and neck. Sam cut his eyes over to Dean. "We're going to have to call him."

"No," Dean said immediately, and resumed his focus on Jane. "Wake up, Jane. C'mon." He removed her arms from the hoodie and then took her by the shoulders, shaking her, and not terribly gently. "Come _ON!_ "

"Stop it," Sam said firmly. "That's not helping."

Dean ran a hand over his face, trying to calm himself. "Okay. Okay, call Cas."

Sam took a breath, like he was going to call out, but Dean stopped him.

"No, on the phone - he's at the hospital, he may not be able to just pop on over."

Sam stood, pulled out his phone, then hesitated. "Dean, we gotta call Andrew, too."

"NO!" Now Dean really _was_ shouting. "This is his fault. _All_ of this!"

Sam dialed. "No answer," he told Dean, now switching over to text.

.

_Jane's really sick. Get here ASAP._

.

Jane started twitching.

"Help me get her on her side," Sam said to Dean, and they watched helplessly as she seemed to go through several rounds of small seizures.

"Where the hell is Cas?" Dean asked aloud.

And suddenly, Jane went still once more - but her eyes began to move rapidly under her lids, and her lips slowly parted, moving slightly as if she were talking in her sleep.

"Jane? Can you hear us?" Sam asked, both he and Dean leaning in close.

The mumbling continued, her brow creasing at the sound of his voice. Dean felt her forehead, then her neck once again. No change; if anything he thought she was even hotter, her heart rate even faster.

"So much for keeping the nightmares away," Dean said under his breath. Then, seemingly defeated, he turned to Sam and spoke quietly. "Call him."

Sam did, though a moment later, he sighed. "Voice mail," he informed Dean, dialing another number.

"Who're you calling?"

"The main line for the ER... Hi, yes, I'm calling for one of your physicians, An --- _No_ , I _can't_ hold ---" Sam got an annoyed expression on his face, hung up, then dialed again, looking at Dean while it began to ring. "I'm about to get loud if they try to put me on hold again, so, uh..." Sam trailed off, tilting his head at the door, and Dean nodded in understanding as Sam left the room, a confrontation with the night shift clerk likely looming.

Dean had just pulled the desk chair over to the side of the bed, when at that moment Jane turned herself over onto her back and sat straight up. It startled him enough that he never made it to the seat. "J-Jane?" he said hesitantly, unsure if she was actually awake. Her back was straight as a board, her eyes were still closed, and the barest whisper of something unintelligible was coming from her lips. Dean approached cautiously, scooting her legs a bit closer to the wall so he could perch on the side of the bed and face her. The whispers continued but grew softer, though he couldn't quite imagine how. He watched as, once more, her head slowly slumped towards her chest.

Sam's raised voice echoed down the hallway, stopped, then began again.

Thunder boomed and lightning cracked overhead.

"Janey, please talk to me," Dean pleaded in a whisper of his own, reaching his right hand over to raise her chin. Out of nowhere, Jane's left hand shot forward, clamping on his wrist.  _Hard_. And though her head was still at a downward tilt when her eyes opened, Dean felt panic course through every inch of his body when he saw it.

Every portion of her eyes were dark as night.

Sam's voice grew louder, his footsteps signalling a return to the room. He entered, saying, "Supposedly I'm only on hold til they get him from ---"

"Hang up the phone," Dean said, cutting Sam off.

"What?"

"Hang. Up. The. Phone," Dean repeated, this time so calmly and carefully that it frightened Sam more than any of his yelling ever could.

Jane's lips were still moving, the whispers still coming, as Sam flicked on the light closest to the bed. A pop, and he jumped back, getting a shock to his fingers. Moving over to Dean and Jane, he saw the grip she had on Dean's wrist, her unwavering gaze that landed somewhere across the room, and he stooped slightly to get a better look, but remained unsure of why Dean was so shaken up.

Dean took the chance that his other arm wouldn't be immobilized and slowly brought his left hand up, this time successfully raising Jane's chin.

"Oh, _no_." It was all Sam could manage, once he saw those blank, dark eyes. But he leaned in closer. And closer. Then so close Dean released Jane's chin and swatted at Sam, giving him a _look_.

Sam went over to his desk and picked up his flashlight. Coming back over to the bed, he clicked it on and ran it across Jane's eyes. She remained still, but briefly paused in her whispering, blinking once before it resumed. "They're not all black," Sam told Dean, a touch of relief in his voice.

"What?" Dean hissed.

"The constellations," Sam said by way of explanation. "See?"

And when he repeated the process with the flashlight, Dean saw them - reflective specks that were now all along the outer perimeter of Jane's eyes. While the majority of the color was black, Sam was right. As the central pitch approached the edges of her lids, it was ever-so-subtly fading into a deep blackish-blue. 

The whispers stopped as Jane blinked from the light. But this time she blinked several more times. Her brow creased again, followed by a slight head tilt. They could tell her eyes were moving, as if she were reading something - and at a quick clip. When the whispers started again, they grew louder, and one word came out clear as a bell.

"...i...i...idgit."

The whispers reverted to mumbles, nothing but more nonsense, yet this time they were peppered with the occasional familiar note. Dean and Sam would describe it later like Latin had been tossed with Russian and German, ground into Klingon, then run through a blender with scraps of Enochian. Untranslatable.

But at that moment, they knew what they'd heard.

"She said what I think she said, right?" Dean asked Sam.

Sam nodded, then followed Dean's sudden shift in gaze, down to his lap. Jane's arm had lowered, and her grip on Dean's wrist had loosened considerably, enough to where he could actually twist it back and forth within her grasp, though she still wasn't letting go.

"Dean."

Their heads snapped back up - Jane's voice was now clear and firm.

"I'm right here," Dean told her, scooting closer.

"Dean," she said again.

Sam glanced at Dean, giving him a little shrug, and was opening his mouth to speak when Jane cried out.

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back! _Now_ , Dean, _go!_ "

Sam watched as all the color drained from Dean's face.

Another tiny head tilt from Jane, more eye movement, more nonsense phrases.

Thunder and lightning rang out again, closer now.

The lights in the bunker flickered.

Dean had just edged his wrist out of Jane's grasp when her left arm came back to life. She was clutching tighter than ever. And her words were unmistakable.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition."

.

* * *

.

Castiel had just walked his freshly discharged patient to the ER exit when his phone vibrated. The second he read the text from Sam, he immediately looked around - too many people. So he made a beeline for the staff locker room.

Unbeknownst to him, moments later an alert of a different sort had come through to Andrew. The doctor had been charting at a computer in the physician's area within the ER, and he left the room without a word to any of his colleagues. Noting the staff and patient family members looming around the nurses' station, he also headed straight to the locker room. And he was just about to open the door when another alert came through - Castiel was right on the other side.

"Damn it," Andrew muttered, readying his game face.

Castiel had been microseconds away from blinking into the bunker when he was startled by Andrew's entrance. Rushing over to another locker, Andrew opened it quickly. Castiel did the same at his own, pretending to look for something.

"Did the guys happen to call you?" Andrew asked him breathlessly, pulling his satchel out of the locker and throwing it over his head, then grabbing his jacket and slamming the locker shut.

Now Castiel began to weave his own tale. He followed Andrew's suit, pulling his trench coat from his locker and donning it. "Yes, ah, when they couldn't reach you immediately. It seems Jane has fallen ill and ---"

"C'mon, I'll drive," Andrew said, cutting him off, and the two practically sprinted out the door.

.

* * *

.

Dean and Sam were still, watching Jane and waiting. The bursts of clear phrases were coming more rapidly now. Then Sam noticed something. "Your arm," he said quietly to Dean.

Looking down to his right arm, the one Jane's hand still held at the wrist, Dean noticed it, too - his inner arm was getting flushed.

Sam touched it, then pulled back, surprised. "You don't feel that?"

"What?"

"It's warm. Warmer than the rest of your arm."

Dean shook his head, went back to staring at Jane's eyes, saying, "Jane, please. _Please_ wake up."

She was still perspiring slightly, and Sam gently moved her ponytail to the side, dabbing at her neck with the cold cloth, when he frowned, telling Dean, "It looks like she's starting to get a rash." As he'd done with his brother's arm, Sam ran his fingers over a reddened area peeking above the loose t-shirt collar. Though it might've appeared a rash, as soon as he felt her skin he realized he was wrong. It was more like the beginnings of welts.

Jane stiffened slightly at his touch, then spoke. "I felt connected to you right from the beginning. Kindred spirits, if you will. You and I are very much alike."

Dean seemed startled, almost scooting off the bed, and then he gasped, looking down at his forearm once more.

"What's wro ---" Sam began, but stopped, because he saw it, too. Like Jane, it seemed as if welts were rising on Dean's skin. And unless both of them were hallucinating the same thing at once, it was beginning to resemble the Mark.

"Uh-uh," said Dean. "No. No _way_."

"Is what she's saying - does any of this mean something to you?" Sam finally asked.

"What Dad said to me the night Mom died. Stuff Cas said. And... and Cain said that last bit to me." He paused long enough to look Sam dead in the eye. "And I'm talking _exactly_ what they said, like she was there."

Sam was now at his limit - he'd had enough. He knelt by the bed. Reaching under their joined arms, he took Jane's other hand, saying, "Jane, it's Sam. I'm here with you, too, okay? Can you hear me?"

Ever-so-slowly, Jane's head turned and that dead gaze narrowed in on him. Sam involuntarily gulped, suddenly feeling nervous. Her grip on his hand tightened as she replied, "It wasn't the blood. It was you... you had it in you the whole time..."

She trailed off as Sam jerked his hand back, shocked. He'd never told anyone, not even Dean, what Ruby had said to him, partly because he didn't believe it. Mostly because it frightened him that he _did_.

Jane winced at Sam's sudden retreat and for a brief second, her expression went to one of confusion.

"Ah!" Sam exclaimed, standing and gripping his left bicep. Walking to the mirror over the sink, he slipped his button-down off his shoulder. As he raised the sleeve of his undershirt, his eyes widened when he saw it. His upper arm was reddened, and a small series of welts were beginning to form. Sam was about to show Dean, but stopped cold when he turned around. Dean was starting to look panicked as Jane was doubling-over. She was cringing and grunting, sounding as if she were fighting off something.

Through grit teeth, she barely managed to get her next words out. "You left part of yourself back in the pit..."

Now Dean _definitely_ looked panicked. "No, no, no, no," he started rambling.

"...let's see if we can get the two of you back together again, shall we?"

Jane yelped in pain as gashes opened up across her neck and the top of her chest, right above the neckline of Sam's shirt - but before they had a chance to bleed, the skin sealed itself together again. Then the same thing happened again, this time over and down either side of her spine, ripping open the back of the shirt, and just as quickly the wounds disappeared, like zippers being closed. She gasped as large holes pierced through either shoulder from front-to-back, an unseen force jerking her several inches straight up off the bed.

" _NO!_ " Dean yelled, looping his free arm around her waist to pull her down. "She can't! Nobody can go through thirty years this fast!"

The wounds disappeared. Jane dropped down into a slumped position, her head falling onto Dean's shoulder. Sam came over to them again, trying to pry Jane's hand from around Dean's wrist.

"It's like she's connecting to you somehow, your memories. We've gotta get her to let go," he said.

Dean seemed to be in a state of shock, rocking Jane back and forth like she was a baby. "Where... wh... she can't..." he muttered.

"Dean! Listen to me! You gotta help me get your arm loose."

"Where did she... did she come..." Then as abruptly as he'd gone into it, Dean snapped out of the trance. " _Where_ the _hell_ is Cas?!"

As if on cue, Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out and looking at it, he took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, saying, "Ohhhhhkay. Cas is almost here, but Andrew's with him."

"This night can't get any friggin' better," Dean spat, but immediately froze. Jane had let him go, and her head began to leave his shoulder. She was sitting up. Though her cheek grazed his, she didn't seem to realize he was there. And while her eyes were still dark, Dean could've sworn he saw it fading around the edges.

The lights flickered again.

The thunderclaps seemed to be moving further away.

A final tilt of the head, and it appeared she _did_ know Dean was there after all, because she placed a hand gently against the side of his face. If she was looking directly at him, Sam couldn't tell, but based on the moisture that sprang to Dean's eyes, there was no doubt that what she said next was meant for him and him alone. The words were harsh - yet she said it so kindly, so sweetly, her voice was almost sympathetic in tone.

"You're an affront to the balance of the universe, and you cause disruption on a global scale."

Pounding echoed from the front door.

Still in a drifting motion, Jane was easing backwards, and Sam steadied her, guiding her down onto the bed.

The lights glowed brighter, making a buzzing, crackling sound.

Blinking slowly, like she was fighting sleep, Jane softly said one last thing before she closed her eyes completely.

"What you're feeling right now is not death - it's life."

Lights out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	6. The Chapel Incident (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers gain more insight on Jane's predicament - and Andrew; a persistent caller to The Hollow has information that concerns the typically unflappable Mose; Castiel faces a decision that could change everything; Dean and Sam make a plan

* * *

_"There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves  
as fiercely as if they had never happened before." - Willa Cather: author, _ _O Pioneers!_

* * *

. 

**NOW**

Time, as Jane has said, is funny.

Einstein got more specific, teaching the world about how time is relative. And when it comes to space and time, things that occur in specific, real times for one person may happen in different, just as real times for you. In short: your mileage may vary.

The poets among us wouldn't quantify time as literally, generally framing time as moments. Moments can seem too short or quite long, even if they are of great importance, indifferent to how good or bad they feel to the one experiencing them. So that's just how time is, it seems the scientists and the philosophers agree.

Every minute of every movement up until the incident can be objectively confirmed. Every moment inside those walls were unique to those who were present. Both are noted, though one is no more 'right' than the other.

I write all this to say, dear Family, that this part of the story is a bit tricky when it comes to what exactly happened, and when. Everyone who was present at the chapel that night learned more later, of course. However, at the time - well, just how quickly and how slowly things happened was most definitely relative.

.

 

* * *

**THEN**

4:42 A.M.

.

Dean stared down at his now-freed arm. He rubbed the wrist for a moment, then quickly unrolled his right sleeve, hiding the fading welts. As he unrolled his other sleeve to match, he looked to Sam. "Get her covered up, I'll go get them."

The emergency lights sporadically placed around various corners of the bunker, powered by one of the backup generators, had come on when the power went off, though the tinted bulbs did not illuminate much. Dean grabbed the flashlight and ran to the door. Sam quickly began putting the hoodie back on Jane to hide the rips in the shirt.

Outside, Castiel and Andrew were each thinking about how to open the door without the other noticing.

"You don't have a key?" Andrew was asking Castiel, when suddenly there stood Dean.

"C'mon," Dean said, and the three hurried through the reddened shadows to the bedroom, where they found Jane sleeping quietly, her head resting in Sam's lap as he blotted it with the cold rag.

"She's still really warm," Sam told them.

"Can we get some lights on in here?" Andrew asked. He pulled his satchel over his head, setting it down on the floor beside the basket of supplies as he knelt next to the bed, putting his hands to Jane's face and neck.

"I think it was the storm. The other generator should ---" Sam began, and as if the bunker were obeying, the lights in the hallway came on.

Dean walked over, clicked a lamp switch on and off, then frowned, saying, "The bulbs in here got fried."

"Help me," Andrew said to Sam, and they lifted Jane together, settling her into Andrew's arms.

"This way," said Dean, leading him across the hall to the room Sam had made up for her earlier.

Jane stirred, mumbling into Andrew's neck. "Gonna wreck your back."

"Not a chance," he told her, then lowered her onto the bed and sat beside her. Looking to Castiel, he asked, "Grab my bag? And did I see a box of gloves?"

The angel nodded, quickly fetching the items from Sam's room.

"Tell me what happened," Andrew instructed the brothers.

Dean and Sam glanced at each other, both beginning to stammer _ums_ and _ahs_ in unison.

"Guys, guys," Andrew said, turning from Jane and holding up a hand in an effort to hush them. They complied, and he said, "Take a deep breath. Nobody died. In my line of work, that's a good day. Just tell me what happened. Someone broke in. And then..."

Sam followed his advice, inhaled and exhaled, then spoke. "She called, we rushed back. We chased off whoever it was, and then it was like she was having one of those breathing attacks."

"She _stopped_ breathing," Dean clarified. "The inhaler didn't do jack. So we... we got one of those syringes like you'd given her here, and we gave it to her.  _I_ gave it to her. And it worked."

"Whole thing?"

"Yeah, almost."

"Okay. Go on," Andrew said, now picking up one of Jane's wrists and looking at his watch, taking her pulse.

"Then here, everything was fine, she started that medicine that's been making her see things," Dean continued. "I woke up, unhooked her, that's when I noticed she had a fever and her heart was racing."

"She had a seizure or two, I think," Sam chimed in.

Andrew was pulling up the sleeve of the hoodie, looking at Jane's ports - the entry site was flaming red. "Seizures are common with high fevers," he told them.

Castiel had come back to the bedside, noted Jane's arm, and commented, "That doesn't look good."

Andrew sighed as he looked up to Castiel, asking, "You feel comfortable getting an IV started? Helping me draw some blood?"

Castiel nodded. "Certainly."

"Why does she need an IV?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, I thought that those were permanent," Dean said, pointing to the ports.

"That's going to have to come out," Andrew answered, reaching into a pocket of his satchel and pulling out a package marked STERILE, then tossing it on the bed beside Jane's legs. "I'll clip the end, get a culture from it, but it's likely infected." He put on gloves, handed a pair to Castiel, and pulled a few empty syringes from another pocket of his bag, removing the attached needles and beginning to draw blood from the line. "We'll get one off her blood, too. Cas, there should a culture bottle somewhere in there."

Castiel nodded again and, after giving Sam and Dean a sympathetic glance, dug through Andrew's bag.

"Do you have an empty coffee can or milk jug or gas can, by chance? Anything on the large side, with a lid or cap?" Andrew asked.

"Yeah, I think so, hang on," Sam answered, leaving the room.

Dean watched as Andrew pulled a syringe of pale-appearing blood and set it to the side, then attached another. "You don't need that one?" he asked.

Andrew glanced up at him briefly, then shook his head, pulling back on the plunger. "That one's mixed with whatever flushed through it last, I just want her blood."

He handed off a full syringe of what Dean observed to be normal-appearing blood to Castiel, who re-attached a needle. He popped the top on a tiny bottle with a murky-looking fluid inside, inserted the needle. The injected blood made it swirl into a dark red cloud. Sam returned then with a coffee can.

"Uncap it for me," Andrew instructed.

Sam did so, asking, "What next?"

"Just set it on the floor by Cas," Andrew replied, now moving on to peeling back the thin, clear protective covering over the entry site in Jane's arm.

"It's for biohazard, a separate trash for the blood products and needles," Castiel explained, picking up the discarded syringe and dropping it into the open can.

Sam nodded, then looked back over at Jane. She would occasionally open her eyes halfway and look down at what Andrew was doing. Otherwise, she was eerily quiet and still.

"What else can we do?" asked Dean.

"Go get yourselves something to drink, eat a snack, take a break," Andrew answered calmly, not looking at them. He removed his gloves and moved on to opening the package. Amongst the things inside, Dean saw scissors.

"You just cut it off?" he asked in an irritable tone, causing Andrew to pause briefly, an annoyed look passing over his face before he continued with his assembling.

"Dean, he doesn't have time to give us the Cliff's Notes version of medical school," Sam said gently, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder, beginning to guide him to the door. "C'mon, we need to let them work."

Dean's forehead creased as he jerked his shoulder out from under Sam's hand, though he did move with him towards the door. Before they walked away, however, he made a point to catch Castiel's eye. The angel conveyed what he needed to hear without a word.

_It's going to be fine_.

The frown lines dissipated as Dean responded with a single nod.

"I almost wish they'd stuck her under a cold shower, but it was smart of them to turn down the temperature in here, it must be fifty degrees," Andrew commented to Castiel after the brothers had left.

"I hadn't noticed," Castiel responded, slightly distracted as he pulled IV supplies out of Andrew's bag, arranging them at the foot of the bed.

Andrew glanced in his direction, raised an eyebrow. "I believe it. I've only ever seen you in a trench coat. Cold not get to you much?"

"No. No, not really."

"Eh, me either," Andrew replied, putting on a new pair of gloves.

It was silent for a few moments, Castiel watching as the doctor carefully laid out a sterile field across Jane's forearm, then picked up the scissors, preparing to snip the stitches securing the line.

"I got immune to it, I suppose," Andrew continued conversationally.

"Oh?"

"Lived in Canada for awhile. Beautiful place." Now he stopped, looked Castiel dead in the eye for what he asked next. "Ever been?"

Castiel willed himself not to blink, keeping his face neutral. "No, can't say that I have."

Andrew turned back to his task. "Well, if you ever do, make sure to try the hot cocoa. Best on the planet."

Castiel hoped his sharp intake of air was not audible.

.

* * *

.

In the kitchen, Dean and Sam were fidgety, pacing around, unable to sit.

"At the apartment, and in the car - all that crap with the lights and the electricity, and ---" Dean stopped speaking for a moment, and looked at Sam. "Was that - do you think ---"

"What, that it's _her_?" Sam asked incredulously, then motioned for Dean to come closer. He lowered his voice. "She's not possessed. There's no _way_ we wouldn't have known by now."

Dean took a deep breath, staving off annoyance with Sam over his instant defense to anything Jane-related. "I'm not _blaming_ her, Sam. You saw her eyes. That's not like any demon, or anything else that we've ever even _read_ about. If she _is_ possessed by something, well - add that to the list of bizarro junk that's peeled out of the woodwork these past few weeks."

Dean wasn't only referring to the strange beings at Jane's apartment. The smattering of small cases they'd gone to investigate just before Jane's visit and in between the times they'd spent with her, were mundane in appearance, but decidedly odd. Sam had to admit, his brother was right. There had been an increase in activity in general, from hauntings to witchcraft. And there was one incident they suspected might've had angelic connections, though it couldn't be proven. Even the bogus calls, like the raccoons, all involved animals that were suddenly behaving strangely, showing no fear of encroaching into human territory - like they were driven from their own.

"And what the hell was that channeling my memories stuff, huh?" Dean continued. "What she said to you, what was that?"

Sam shook his head, looking upwards and swallowing down the bad taste that came to his mouth along with the memory. "Nothing, it was nothing."

"Didn't look like nothing, you jumped like you'd been shot."

Sam looked back to him. "It was... something Ruby said. About me not really needing demon blood, that I could've done all that stuff on my own."

"Well, turns out there's been a hell of a lot of past predictions coming true these past few years, wouldn't you say? About the time she -" Dean stopped himself, shut his eyes briefly, then opened them and continued. "About the time you got hurt, and he got near you, and then led her to us."

Sam didn't reply right away, instead backing up and leaning against the wall. He met Dean's eye, a very serious look on his face, asking, "Are you - are you thinking -"

Dean came around the table, getting even closer to Sam, still whispering. "What if he did something to _you_ , too?"

Sam looked away, shaking his head. "No. No, all of that was set into motion back when we -"

"Back when we were kids? Like back when _she_ was a kid, and her rounds of being reaper bait mysteriously cleared up?"

At the sound of footsteps coming their way, Dean moved away from Sam quickly and went to the refrigerator, casually pulling out a beer.

Andrew came in, taking off his glasses and hanging them on the neckline of his scrubs. He stopped by the metal island, running his hand over his face with a deep sigh. Then he looked up at the brothers.

"I'd offer you one, but..." Dean said, holding up the beer a bit. He walked over to the island and set it down. He stood across from Andrew, trying to get a read on the doctor but coming up empty.

"How's it going?" asked Sam.

"Fine. No trouble removing the line. Cas started the IV, he's drawing some labwork for me now." Andrew paused. He placed his hands on the table, leaning forward. Suddenly, he brought both back up, then slammed them down again, sending a sharp _bang_ into the air. "I cannot keep up," he said warily, still looking down. "Every time I get one thing settled, and I give her hope, something new appears or something old comes back." He shook his head, then stood up straight. "It's like her body is trying to kill itself, bit by bit, and I just..." Andrew looked to them as he trailed off. "I am so sorry I'm not better."

Dean and Sam glanced at each other, then back at him.

Sam pushed himself away from the wall, a touch of a frown on his face, and he asked for some clarification as he came to a stop next to Andrew. "Better? Better at _what_?"

And Andrew looked right in Sam's eyes as he gave a simple response. "At all of it."

"You're not lying," Sam said in a soft voice, the realization slipping from his mind and out of his mouth without hesitation.

The tiniest trace of sorrow crossed Andrew's face. "No. I'm not."

Castiel walked in the kitchen then, carrying a lab bag full of an assortment of tubes with tops of various colors.

"Jeez, Cas, did you drain her?" Dean said, gawking at the bag.

"Of course not," Castiel answered, giving Dean a bit of a _look_. To Andrew he said, "I have maintenance fluids running. She's sleeping. I didn't see any labels or paperwork ---"

"No, no, that's not necessary, I'm processing it myself, at my lab," Andrew answered.

Castiel nodded, setting the bag on the metal surface in front of the doctor.

Andrew glanced at it, seeming to be in thought, then looked back to him. "How much are they paying you at the ER?"

Castiel's eyebrows shot up. "Beg your pardon?"

Andrew shook his head, saying, "Never mind. I'll double it. Full benefits, I'll cover those 100%. I'll match retirement plan contributions, lease you a car, credit card for gas ---"

"I don't understand," Castiel interrupted him.

"Jane is about to need more care than I have hours in the day to provide. I have to be in the lab round the clock from this point on," Andrew explained. "So I want to hire you."

"What!?" Sam and Dean exclaimed at once, and Andrew turned away from Castiel slightly to include them in the conversation.

"She likes him, you trust him, and I've watched him work - he knows his stuff."

"Well, we can help," Dean said. "She can stay here as much as she needs to, I mean, I don't know where your lab is, if it's close to here ---"

Andrew shook his head again, saying, "Much of her medicine cannot be made into pills or aerosols or go through IVs -"

Then Dean interrupted _him_ , saying, "Went through those others just fine."

"Because those were a direct entry to her circulatory system - this stuff is potent, I can only dilute it so much. It will scar her veins, not to mention it would be very, very painful." Andrew's expression shifted to a new level of seriousness. "So are you - _either_ of you - prepared to give her multiple injections, every day, and through the night?"

The brothers stared at him, then looked over to Castiel, giving Andrew his answer.

"Of course," Castiel said. "Of _course_ I'll do it. But all the rest, that's not necessary."

"I'm going to compensate you in some manner. Believe me - you're going to earn it." Andrew moved away from the island, beginning to walk around it as he looked to Sam and pointed at the refrigerator. "Did you put the medication...?"

"Yeah, here," Sam replied, walking over to join him.

Dean took the opportunity to go quickly over to Castiel, grabbing his arm and guiding him just out of the kitchen. "Whatever is wrong with her - _fix it_ ," he practically hissed.

"I _can't_ ," Castiel whispered back. "I can't see _anything_ , it's a blur when I try to look inside of her, like her bones vibrate, as if her blood is black and her organs are just shadows that blend together."

Dean's eyebrows knotted together and his voice got gruff. "So call up some of your old buddies from wingtown, Cas! Ask around! _Do_ something!"

Castiel appeared perturbed. "I _am_ doing something, Dean. In case you haven't noticed, I just got invited into the inner circle, as it were. At some point, whether it's to drop off bloodwork or get medicine or to bring Jane to him, it's only a matter of time til I see where he's going, see what this lab really is."

"What if she doesn't _have_ that kind of time, before he Frankensteins her into something else? Before he might screw up? Or before he finds out we're on to him, decides to cut his losses, and he _kills_ her?"

A bit of confusion crossed Castiel's face as he asked, "What exactly happened before we ---"

"Cas?" Sam called out. "You need to hear this."

Castiel gave Dean one last hard look, then walked back into the kitchen, with a reluctant Dean following behind. Andrew and Sam had the trays of capped, filled syringes on the wooden table. One of each color was laid out, all varying sizes. Their content varied, as well - some hazy, some thick, some thin, but all were of differing shades.

"I was just telling Sam - other than the one that looks like glue and this cloudy one, the rest are tinted by me during the reconstitution process, for Jane's benefit," Andrew explained.

"Her eyes," Sam added on, looking at Dean. "If they do the... you know..."

"When they get so dilated, she can't read print well enough. This way, she's always been able to give herself anything she needed in a pinch when I wasn't around," Andrew clarified. Now he looked specifically at Castiel, holding up one large syringe and one small. "This one - major muscle. This one - abdomen or any other subcutaneous spot, in a couple of hours. Pills, too, she knows which ones to take. Next injection will be in the afternoon."

Castiel nodded.

"We've got enough here to get her through the rest of today and tonight; thanks to the guys, there's plenty of supplies. I'll send Sam a document with everything you need to know on the medication once I get to the lab, and I'll bring back more tomorrow. We'll plan for the rest of the week then."

At that, Andrew picked up the bag of bloodwork, then pulled his glasses from his shirt, flicking them open and stepping away from the table, beginning to move towards the door.

"Wait! You're leaving?" Dean asked, looking from Andrew to Castiel, then back again.

Andrew paused and looked at him with that same intent gaze he'd given Sam earlier. "The lab's where you want me, Dean. I promise. So I can get this done. For her sake." He put on his glasses and gave Dean's shoulder a pat before continuing out the door.

Dean stared at the empty doorway. Sam stared at the line of syringes on the table. Castiel watched them carefully.

All three were still and silent for several minutes.

"I'm going to go find some needles, start getting these ready," Castiel said, giving the brothers one last heartfelt look before exiting.

"Thanks, Cas," Sam acknowledged, albeit distractedly.

"I'm uh... I think I'm gonna go up on the roof for a while, Sammy," Dean said quietly, grabbing the beer he'd gotten out earlier and heading towards the door.

Sam responded, though Dean had already gone. "I'm going to go sit with Jane."

.  
/ / / /  
.

The only lamp on in the room where Jane slept was a small one on the shelf above the bed. Dean's crazy pole was nearby, the pump humming softly as it pushed a small bag of fluid down the tubing to an IV in her right hand. There was thick bandaging wrapped around her arm where the line for the ports used to be. The hoodie was gone, thrown across one of the chairs, and Sam smiled a little at the lack of holes in the shirt she wore, mentally thanking Castiel again for what he knew must've been quick thinking on the angel's part.

Sam quietly pulled a chair to the side of the bed. He leaned up, brushing a few wisps of hair aside and felt her forehead - whatever Andrew had done, it worked. The fever had broken. Someone had removed the blanket, but covered her in the top sheet, and she was quite pale but looked... at peace. And at that very moment, she slowly opened her eyes, squinting a bit, and when she saw it was him, a barely-there smile appeared.

"Hey Buddy," Jane said weakly.

"Hey," Sam replied, and for the second time in as many days, he asked, "I didn't wake you up, did I?" He gently edged his fingers under her hand, tucking his thumb up to hers, careful not to disturb the IV.

The tiniest of head shakes. "I can't really sleep. Just napping."

"Having weird dreams?"

"Mmm-hmm," she confirmed, her eyes drifting closed again. "You and Dean were in them."

"Yeah?"

"You both looked weird." Jane's forehead creased a bit. "Your faces... they looked..." She trailed off, but her eyes opened as much as he suspected she could manage and he saw sadness in them as she curled her fingers around his hand best she could. "I heard Dean's voice say something like... that other than that car, all you two had was each other... do you guys really feel like that?"

Sam considered this, though only for the briefest of moments before responding. "Yeah. But not right... not now." He looked down at their hands, silent for what felt to Jane like an eternity.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked softly.

"Do you ever think about..." Sam looked back up at her, knowing his eyes held sadness, as well. "Do you ever think about what will your heaven be like?"

Jane's eyebrows raised slightly in a bit of faux-astonishment. " _Penny_ , not a _dollar_."

"Sorry," he said, and immediately diverted his eyes, lowering his head.

"No, I am," she said, squeezing Sam's hand, and he looked back up. She sighed and shifted to her side, tilting towards him as she answered. "Oh, I dunno. Lots of puppies running around. So many books it'll seem like I'll never be able to read 'em all. Maybe an old dive bar, drinking whiskey with Johnny Cash. At some point, Cass Elliott on stage. And Patsy Cline. And Prince. Not all at the same time." A pause. "Or, _maybe_."

Sam chuckled.

"What else... a really good barbeque joint. And there will be a bathtub I can lie completely down in, that keeps the water exactly hot enough. And no alarm clocks. _Ever_."

Now Sam grinned. "I would visit your heaven."

"You should. It'll be the best one..." Then it was Jane who looked away, glancing down at their hands. She rubbed her thumb against his. When she spoke again, her voice was cracking. "But not too soon, though, okay? I like you and all, but you... you just take your time. Let me get settled in."

She looked back up at him, her eyes filled with tears, and Sam felt his own eyes get moist as he nodded.

"Promise?" she whispered.

"Promise."

.

* * *

.

5:56 A.M.

Castiel had always loved languages, and though it was wise of angels, being watchers over humankind, to know them all, some of his kin opted to concentrate more on other studies. But he loved the sounds humans made, how some words sounded completely different depending on whose mouth they left, how much tone and expression and accents mattered. Things sounded so brash in his native tongue; he much preferred earth's dialects. He'd not mastered communication, this he knew, and it had become a habit of his to mull over words in his mind while he did other things.

After finishing preparation of the injections, Castiel had busied himself organizing the rest of the medical supplies to his liking, and two particular words were turning over in his mind: _wonder_ and _wander_. Words with similar sounds and different meanings weren't unique to English, though in this case, for him, they were two sides of the same coin. He felt like he was wandering, all the while wondering how it was Jane had escaped his watch.

Before the mission to rescue Dean from hell, Castiel and the other soldiers who'd joined him were all briefed on the Winchester family, though more distant relatives like the Campbell cousins, or even those as near as their grandparents, were merely footnotes. The focus was on Dean and Sam, their pivotal role in what was to come. Then after Dean's retrieval, Castiel had received a promotion of sorts. He was to be the primary watcher of the children of John and Mary. He was to push them when they needed pushing, guide them when they needed guiding, but above all he was to be neutral. They had to make their own decisions. They had to find their own paths.

To say their appointed guardian had overstepped his bounds and become attached would have been the understatement of the century. He would sacrifice himself for them without hesitation - and _had_. And Castiel would have done the same for their sister. He should have been briefed on her, been able to review her birth, her life, her existence. Yet Jane had been completely hidden from angelic radar, her heavenly records wiped, the knowledge of her being taken from her loved ones, and Castiel was, quite frankly, stumped. Confounded. Gobsmacked. The Germans probably had a better word for this; he'd have to check.

In any event, a more important task, a bigger decision, lay before him, and he was staring down the coffee can resting on Sam's bed next to the basket. The digital watch he wore as part of his disguise beeped; glancing, he noted that Jane's infusion should be nearing completion. Castiel put the can in the basket, picked it up, and went across and slightly down the hall to what he now considered Jane's room.

The door was cracked and, peeking in, he saw that the bag of fluids was not quite empty. Jane appeared to finally be getting some quality sleep, so he stealthily entered and set the basket on the desk. Sam had crawled up on the bed beside her at some point, also sound asleep. Castiel knew he'd done this to comfort himself when he was a child, curling up next to Dean in his sleep during the stressful times, when their mother was long gone, and their father was far away. He wondered briefly if Sam was making up for lost opportunities with Jane while he could. Opting to let them rest, he quietly closed the door, heading up to the roof to check on Dean.

Castiel found Dean seated, leaning against one of the ledge walls, face turned skyward. Castiel's arrival wasn't acknowledged, so he walked over, sitting nearby. After a moment or two, Dean spoke.

"It cleared up."

Castiel followed Dean's gaze. "That it did."

The storms had passed, and a handful of stars still graced the sky as the sun was beginning to make its entrance. Suddenly, Dean grabbed the empty beer bottle at his side and hurled it clean across the roof, clearing its width easily and sending it sailing over the opposite ledge. Castiel raised his arm; the bottle appeared in his hand. Dean cast him a sidelong _look_ , but didn't say anything, now bending his legs up, putting his folded arms atop his knees and leaning forward, propping his chin, staring out at nothing. Another few moments passed before Castiel breached the silence.

"I wanted to come check on you. Sam seems to be getting some sleep. I'd hoped to talk you into doing the same."

Though Dean looked absolutely exhausted, he said, "I can't rest. Not until we stop wandering around in circles and figure out what the hell's going on."

"Then will you tell me? About what occurred yesterday? With Jane?"

"It was like..." Dean trailed off, looked over with as deep concern as Castiel had seen in his friend. "I tell you, for a minute there, it was like she was turning into something we should be hunting."

Castiel waited for more, and Dean did not disappoint, telling him the whole story, from the power interruptions to the creatures to Jane's mysterious outbursts.

"I didn't know what to think, when you said something was weird when she touched you," Dean concluded, "and then there we were, her downloading my greatest hits."

Castiel pondered all the information he'd been given, then asked, "Do you want me to continue giving her the medication?"

Dean sighed, opening and closing his mouth a few times to answer, but seemed to give up, and stood. He looked around for a bit, kicking absently at a few dead leaves, as if the solution were lying around the roof. Castiel was quiet while Dean made his decision. "We don't know what's wrong with her," he finally said. "We don't know what's in that medicine. We don't know what's gonna make her change if we give it, or what might kill her if we don't." Dean turned his head, stared out at the pending sunrise, thinking. Upon coming to a decision, letting his eyes land back on Castiel, he said, "You gotta give it to her. Right now we don't have a choice." Dean extended his hand, helping his friend to stand.

"I will do everything in my power to help Jane," Castiel assured him, once he was standing and able to look Dean right in the eye.

Dean nodded. "I know," he said, briefly squeezing the hand he still held before letting go. "I'm going to make some extra strong coffee and get to work researching those nasty plastic bastards."

As they walked towards the stairs, Castiel said, "It's almost time for Jane's injection, then I'll join you."

Dean stopped momentarily, looking back at him, shaking his head. "No. Your job right now is _her_."

Castiel nodded. He knew it. He only wished he knew what he needed to _do_. Once downstairs, Castiel retrieved one of the tinier syringes from the refrigerator and filled a glass of water. Now in Jane's room, she stirred from slumber as he was moving the pump off to the side, having disconnected the completed infusion.

"Hi," she said. After noticing Sam beside her, she smiled, and whispered, "Don't you wish you could sleep like that?"

Castiel returned her smile with one of his own as he set the glass of water on the bedside table.

"It's that time, I guess," said Jane, moving slowly to push herself into more of a sitting position.

Castiel came closer, adjusting a few pillows behind her back.

"Thank you."

He nodded, then hesitantly pulled an alcohol swab and the syringe from his pocket.

Noticing, she said, "I got this."

Jane raised the hem of her shirt, took both the swab and syringe from him. Ripping open the little packet, she scrubbed a small area just to the side of her belly button, then held the skin taut with one hand. Removing the syringe cap with her teeth, she injected herself with the other hand without a flinch, all in maybe twenty seconds flat. She carefully replaced the cap over the needle and handed it back to Castiel, noting the expression on his face, not quite sure where it was coming from - at first.

"I never met a surgical table I didn't like," Jane whispered, referring to the myriad scars visible on her abdomen. She lowered the hem of the shirt, covering them once more.

Castiel nodded again, no appropriate words coming to mind. He turned back to the desk, beginning to pull out the mass of pill bottles. Jane sipped on her water while he busied himself arranging them, and it was at that point Sam awoke. After he rubbed his eyes and propped himself on an elbow, he realized Castiel was in the room and immediately looked to Jane. 

"What's happening - are you okay?" Sam asked, a touch of panic in his voice.

She narrowed her eyes, answering, "I'm going to put out a jar, and anytime y'all say that, you'll have to put money in it."

Sam grinned, glad to see she was back to her old self, at least for the time being. He stood and stretched, then yawned.

" _Please_ tell me you're going to your room to get some real sleep," Jane said.

"Maybe. I'm going to go check on Dean first, though."

"Which of these would you like to start with?" Castiel broke in, gesturing. He'd organized the bottles according to the time of day on the labels, and was currently pointing to a group of about eight.

"Oh, I can just ---" Jane began, moving like she was going to get up.

" _No!_ " Castiel and Sam exclaimed at once.

" _Ooookaaaay_ ," she replied good-naturedly, too tired to argue. Settling back against her pillows, she said, "Dealer's choice."

Castiel brought two of them over and noticed Sam was making his way to the door. "Jane, excuse me one moment," he said.

Jane nodded, beginning to open a bottle, and said, "Take your time".

Castiel pulled her door to, then walked with Sam down the hall. "Dean has refused to get some rest," he began, once they'd come around the bend and stopped.

"You're surprised?"

"He says he's going to work on researching the creatures you saw at Jane's apartment."

Sam could tell by his friend's expression that there was something else, so he opted to issue a prompt. " _And?_ "

"And I just wanted to convey, as I have already said to Dean, that I am committed to making sure Jane is not harmed."

Sam's face softened. "I know, Cas. That's not even something I ever considered, even when I thought you may've known about her and just weren't telling us, for whatever reason."

"I assure you, I had no knowledge whatsoever that ---"

"I _know_ , Cas," Sam interjected gently, cutting him off. "Just like I know you'd never do anything to hurt her or put her in danger. It makes things easier, I don't have to wonder what's next when I know you're looking out for her."

Sam gave him a clap on the shoulder, then went to join Dean in the library. Entering Jane's room once more, Castiel was met with another one of those tired, kind smiles from his patient. His _charge_.

"All done with these," she announced. "Bring it on."

Castiel handed her the next few bottles, then took the others from the bedside table where she'd set them, returning them to their places on the desk. His gaze drifted and he found himself staring once more at the coffee can. He removed the lid, set it to the side, tossed in the used syringe. He stared some more.

And then, overwhelmed with guilt, he removed three full tubes of Jane's blood from his pocket, tossing them in with the rest of the soon-to-be garbage.

.

* * *

.

11:18 A.M.

The Winchesters were not the only ones who'd had a mostly sleepless night.

Following the conclusion of the prior night's show, Mose had taken what was essentially a short nap before beginning his journey. His day started in the pitch black, hours before Dean had awoken all those miles away in the frosty bunker. Mose had roughly a three hour drive from his hide-a-way to the closest major airport, and after his day of flying, he'd be driving another couple of hours from his destination airport to the bunker.

He was prepared, though. Freshly purchased batteries for the custom hearing aids he wore whenever he was in public, plenty of research to read loaded on his tablet, and a multitude of music for the car were all ready to go. And then, of course, there was Max's pre-recorded episode of The Hollow to review. All of which was good, because after the first part of his journey went fairly smoothly, changing flights without issue and staying right on time, he found himself rounding out yet another hour of a delay in an airport lounge. In Michigan. Specifically, the lovely Gerald R. Ford International Airport in the equally enthralling Grand Rapids.

Annoyed at the repeated placations by airline employees over the speakers, Mose had situated himself in a vacant corner of the lounge and put on his headphones, both out of necessity and also to clearly communicate his lack of interest in chatting with other frustrated passengers. And now he felt his eyes cross as he listened to the intro of the pre-record from Max that had just landed in his inbox. The intern had apparently taken Mose's praise to heart, and was laying on the Vincent Price vibe thick, creepy laugh and all. Underscoring Max's script were the faint sound effects of wind whooshing and floorboards creaking.

_"...and what will my lovely guests find in my house of wax on the haunted hill in The Hollow ---"_

Mose groaned.

_"--- since it's almost time to lock the doors, and then your party will really begin. I wonder - how it will end? Mwah-ah-ahahahah!"_

Thing was, Mose had to admit that the fans were going to love it. Between your run-of-the mill insomniacs, the coast-to-coast junkies, the long haul truckers who made up the bulk of the CB crew, and the podcast listeners who just loved creepy stories, The Hollow had an eclectic fan base. Then there were the more eccentric ones, who Max had seeming endless patience for, but could wear Mose out. Everything they brought to bear was rehashed with so much weight. A given fill-in-the-blank wasn't known to hang in certain areas, it was _a denizen of the habitat_. The such-and-such didn't have a poltergeist, it was _plagued by a malevolent entity_. What could he say? Missouri helped raise a sensible man amidst things that hardly made sense.

But some of the consistently solid intel originated from a corner of the audience that could get more than a little skittish, particularly when it came to modern communication. No interacting via the web page's message board, certainly none of the social media outlets the younger part of the fan base had set up. And never cell phones - many would only call in if they could use a land line. So it was that The Hollow's tip line was an old-school answering machine that lived on a small table in the attic, a shoe box of cassette tapes perched alongside it. Though he held fast to his _hard pass on conspiracy theories_ model, Mose was happy to oblige with this one area remaining devoid of technology, as long as it eased their suspicious minds. And as long as it meant he wouldn't lose potentially quality information.

Mose paused the playback when he noticed his inbox had another arrival. Max had sent a second email.

.

_Hey boss - Hope the trip's going smooth. Got a quick one to run by you, not sure how to handle it._

_The guy that hung up on me that I told you about, the one from the earlier shows? Phil? Fred? Frank, maybe? Well when I went in early this morning to edit, the tape was full - I know I turned it over last night before I left. I don't know how many times he called but it took up the whole side. He sounds really worked up, said he'll only talk to you because you know some code or password._

_He's worked up about some area in Kansas, around this tiny town called Hunter, what he's describing sounds like an EMP, said people were reporting instances about 70 miles in every direction off and on the past few days. Then in some of the calls, he's talking about some kids, also in Kansas, who were arrested for trespassing and destruction of property or vandalism or something at an abandoned church, and they're claiming something paranormal, but I'm not sure if he's saying the two are connected._

_Anyway - he didn't leave a number, so I know he's going to keep calling back. If he calls in during a live show, if he'll talk to me, do you want me to put him on?_

.

Mose finished reading with a frown on his face, but also with a bit of a hunch. He glanced at the time; Max might still be in class. He sent a text anyway.

.

_CALL ME_

.

While he waited for Max to call, Mose started following that hunch, doing a bit of his style of hunting.

The way the more credible-sounding stories filtering through The Hollow were verified was not via things like audio recordings or pictures, as those could be faked, nor via eyewitnesses, as those were unreliable. Instead, Mose focused on the parts of the stories that had actual meat to them, things that no respectable local newspaper or morning show would overlook. The more citizens of said locality that were involved, the more the likelihood of coverage increased.

And Mose's seemingly motley search terms of " _Kansas church chapel plane crash_ " got him pay dirt. Some incredibly diligent or incredibly bored soul had scanned in every issue of the now-defunct _Hunter Gazette_. A cub reporter had gotten his first above-the-fold front pager in the mid-90s when covering a run-of-the-mill bake sale at a local church went sideways one crisp fall Saturday. It seemed that the church - so small it was a chapel, really - had nearly gotten destroyed by a tornado, going on a decade prior. It had been rebuilt, though now was in desperate need of a new roof. And, should they raise enough funds with their cakes and preserves, an expanded choir loft was next on the list. The reporter's laconic style then shifted, and as Mose read on, he sure saw why. 

As the choir was serenading the patrons of the sale, a twin engine seemed to come out of nowhere, hitting the ground hard and then sailing into the backside of the building, taking out the aforementioned choir loft and nearly clipping a dozen or so parishioners. The reporter barely bothered to mention the several instances of fainting and complaints of chest pain in the crowd before moving on to the part of the story Mose was hoping for. The investigation into the crash indicated that the pilot - who perished - had lost control. The article made a point to note that the pilot had glided the plane in to the best of his ability, and it was fortunate that no one else was killed. The investigators told the reporter their working theory was that the pilot had gotten disoriented after going through a line of thunderstorms that was sighted in the next county over.

Vigilant as the cub was, he then interviewed the meteorologist at one of the local news stations, who confirmed the station had received calls from viewers in said neighboring county, asking when the storm was supposed to hit and complaining that he'd not mentioned it on that morning's news show. Only the meteorologist claimed there was nothing to tell. There had been nothing on the radar. Mose found only one more article by the reporter, a follow-up, this one several pages back in the _Gazette_ a few weeks later. The meteorologist had referred him to an old schoolmate who was now a specialist, more specifically an atmospheric scientist.

And Mose understood why the article was buried - it was a dense write-up of the scientist's speculations. There were lots of words like electron collisions, high energy photons, gamma-rays. The article concluded ambiguously, with the scientist noting that these freak thunderstorms, in the right conditions, could produce any number of events. Certainly enough to disrupt flight instrumentation and communications. Perhaps shut down a plane completely.

Mose turned off his tablet, thinking. He could not speak to any of those things, but he knew from frequencies, pitch, wavelengths, oscillations. He'd _had_ to. And this was all starting to sound very familiar.

Just then, an over-trained and slightly strained customer service voice came over the speaker:

_"Attention passengers waiting on Flight 4592 to Kansas City: unfortunately this flight has been cancelled, and will instead depart tomorrow morning at 6:15 A.M. Please proceed to the nearest representative's desk for information on local hotels and to confirm your seat for the morning flight. Thank you."_

Mose barely noticed. He'd heard, but his phone had started vibrating. Putting his headphones and tablet back into his bag, he stood as he answered Max's call.

"Hey, man."

"Hey, boss, how's it going?"

"Max, you happen to remember where Ed said that church was? Where the freaky stuff was happening?"

"Uh... hmm, not off the top of my head. Lemme check that fan wiki. Somebody's gotten that show's transcript up by now."

Mose paced around the chairs of the lounge.

"Bear with me," Max said, and Mose heard shuffling, then the clicking of a keyboard.

He paced some more.

"Hey, how about that. I wonder if the tape-eater was talking about the same church, what are the chances of there being two weird churches in Hunter, Ka ---"

"Gotta run, thanks," Mose cut in, hanging up before the intern could finish. He made his way to the service desk, doing another quick search on his phone while he waited in line. A touch under 850 miles. At least 11 or 12 hours, assuming no lengthy stops. Once at the desk, he handed his boarding pass to the flight rep, saying, "I need to cancel my reservation."

Her brow creased as she replied.

"But sir, it's not going to be refundable since ---"

"That's fine."

"But your baggage is already at Kansas City Inter ---"

"I just need you to point me to where I can get a rental car."

.

* * *

.

1:33 P.M.

Dean and Sam had both dozed off at the table where they sat researching, books and laptops and empty coffee cups surrounding them. Though Jane was fast asleep last he checked, Castiel still minimized windows, dog-eared or stuck in loose papers as makeshift markers into the books and closed them, all in the event she got up. He wouldn't have wanted her to stray into that world sooner than her brothers intended. Then Castiel had gone up the curvy stairs and stood on the landing, pulling out his phone, composing and sending the text he'd been putting off all day. Just after he'd returned the phone to his pocket, he frowned. Noises were coming from the kitchen.

Entering, he saw Jane busily removing items from the refrigerator.

"I'm _starving_ ," she announced. "Have you eaten?"

"N-no. Jane, what ---"

"I promised them breakfast," she said by way of explanation, then stopped, looking around. "If you were a big bowl, where would you be?"

"It's not really breakfast time anymore," Castiel pointed out, retrieving a mixing bowl and handing it to her.

"Thanks," said Jane, taking the bowl. "Well, we'll have to agree to disagree. Anytime you first wake up is breakfast time. Okay, so, if you were a skillet, where would you be?"

"We also need to do your next injection shortly."

"Oh, another few minutes won't hurt anything."

Castiel sighed, seeing she would not be deterred, and assisted her in gathering the needed supplies. Jane looked well - no longer pale, didn't seem weak, had energy. No tremors, either, he thought, watching her crack eggs into the bowl one-handed. After a few moments filled with only the sound of the eggs being whisked, he moved towards the door, but Jane stopped him.

"Oh, don't go," she said in a slightly pleading tone. "Sit, stay, talk to me. We don't hardly know each other, and you're about to start giving me shots in the butt. Not a cool way to start a friendship."

Castiel, realizing she had a point, sat at the table and angle himself in her direction, watching as she worked at the island.

"So tell me about yourself," Jane said, measuring out sugar.

"Like what?" he replied, and warily.

"Like... what is 'Cas' short for?"

_Oh._ He was unprepared, and so he said the first name that popped into his mind. "Casanova."

Jane stopped her measuring and looked up. "No kidding."

"Afraid not." Castiel forced what he hoped sounded like a convincing laugh to complement the lie.

" _Some_ body's parents had interesting expectations."

"I don't really tell people." As an afterthought - and with a genuinely concerned look on his face - he tacked on a truth. "But please don't worry. I'm not a womanizer."

Jane chuckled. "I didn't assume you were. You dodged a bullet, though, at least Cas is a good nickname."

"'Jane' doesn't seem as if it would lend itself to poor nicknames."

"Oh, you'd be surprised." Jane retrieved milk from the refrigerator, measuring it out and adding it to the bowl. Then she began to think aloud. She started ticking nickname options off on the fingers of one hand while mixing the beginnings of pancake batter with the other. "Let's see... there's Plain Jane. Calamity Jane, my least favorite. See Jane Run, See Jane Fall, See Jane _Whatever_."

"It's nice that you were named for your father," Castiel commented.

Jane's stirring slowed as she glanced up at him. "I never thought of that. Huh."

She looked back down, resuming her mixing, but slowly. Castiel noted her expression was both a little sad and a little pleased, but she seemed to shake herself out of it quickly. The mixing took on a brisk pace as she tilted the bowl with her free hand, scraping the sides with the spatula as she went. Then she paused momentarily, bringing her eyes to his again.

"Hey, you wanna help out?"

"Certainly. As long as we get your medication done soon."

"Absolutely, cross my heart. Now see if you can find a baking sheet, and grab the bacon."

.  
/ / / /  
.

About thirty minutes later, back in the library, Sam woke first, thanks to Dean's snoring. "Hey," he said, then kicked at Dean's legs under the table when he got no response.

Coming alive with a snort, Dean looked around, made a face as he wiped a bit of drool off the table.

Sam ran his hands through his hair, blinking his eyes purposefully several times to wake himself up.

"What time is it?" Dean asked.

"Almost two. Where were we?"

"Well, I think I had something..." Dean began, then frowned at his laptop, moving his finger over the pad and tapping it aggressively, trying to pull up the page he'd been reading.

"I'll go first," Sam offered, opening up a nearby book to the section marked with a page of his notes, taking it out and then flipping the book around towards Dean. "Here's a blast-from-the-past. Seems good old Howard Phillips Lovecraft wrote about something similar, _several_ times. Nightgaunts."

Dean took the book and looked at an artist's rendering. "It wasn't black. No wings or a tail or whatever the hell's going on with its head," he commented skeptically.

"Yeah, but listen to how Lovecraft described it," Sam countered, reading aloud from his notes. "Tall, human-like in shape, but faceless. Prehensile digits used for grasping. They make no sound. Skin is rubbery and smooth, like a whale. And they're servants, they don't operate independently."

Dean looked back at the book, scanning over the text. "Says their m.o. is tickling their captives to death. Having died more than a few times myself, I can still say that'd be a new one for me."

Sam grinned, but then his face grew serious again. "You know, Jane mentioned something to me. When we were talking earlier, we kinda strayed into imagining things, like what her heaven would be like ---"

"Jeez, Sam!"

"--- but then she was telling me how the whole thing at the apartment, what she thought was a hallucination, it really freaked her out. Not just what she saw, even though that was weird enough. She remembers the 'intruder' cornering her at the door, but not making any moves to hurt her; it just _licked_ her."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "It didn't have a _mouth_."

"She said one opened up. What I'm getting at is, if it was on a mission for its... its leader, its master, whatever or _whoever_ its serving, why would that be its orders? What good did that do? Why not just kidnap her, there were enough of them to do it, if we hadn't been there."

Dean sat back in his chair, thinking, Sam following suit - but then their concentration seemed to break at the same time, their brows creasing simultaneously.

Sam leaned forward again.

Dean sniffed the air.

"You smell that, too?" Sam asked, but Dean had already gotten up from his chair, on the move, his response drifting over his shoulder.

"I don't know what it is, but I'm gonna marry it and have its babies."

.  
/ / / /  
.

Castiel had gloved up and retrieved one of the larger syringes. It was filled with a dense, white fluid that seemed to have a consistency not unlike the pancake batter. Jane was leaning over slightly, waiting patiently with her elbows on the island.

"You're pretty good at this right?" she asked.

"Right," Castiel lied.

The insertion of sharp objects into bodies - on that topic, he was proficient. This, however, was going to be the first time he'd given an injection of this sort, as somehow none of his assigned patients had needed one during all his shifts at the ER. But he knew the mechanics, he knew the appropriate locations for various types of injectable medications, and really, given his considerable lifespan and the activities therein, he'd certainly done much more difficult things than putting a needle into a muscle.

"Okay," Jane replied.

"Piece of cake," Castiel said aloud, assuring himself more than Jane, his gloved hand still holding the needle at a hover over her glute.

"Just get it overwith," Jane said, steeling herself and closing her eyes.

Dean and Sam walked in, seeing Jane bent over with her pajama pants askew, Castiel behind her with one hand on her hip, right in time to witness her wince and hear her proclaim:

"No, you are not! You are _not_ good at this!"

"I'm trying to be gentle," Castiel replied as he cringed in empathy, continuing to push on the plunger. "It's just so thick."

" _Whoa!_ " Dean barked, raising a hand reflexively to cover Sam's eyes, which Sam immediately started to bat away.

Both Jane and Castiel looked up.

"He's just giving me a shot, grow up," Jane chastised them, but then a smile started to appear. "You should _see_ your faces."

"You should see what _we_ just saw, talk about nightmares!" Dean exclaimed.

Castiel applied a band-aid, then hesitated.

"I got it," Jane told him for the second time that day, adjusting her pants as she stood up straight.

Relieved, Castiel stripped off his gloves, moving to the trash can and throwing them away.

"No, really," Dean went on, "that scarred me."

"Oh stop clutching your pearls, because hey! Look! Pancakes!" Jane said, gesturing to the piled-high plate on the counter. "This is me, changing the subject, is what this is, in case you couldn't tell."

"How long have you been up?" Sam asked, beginning to get out plates. "I mean, you look great, I just thought you'd wanna lay low today."

Dean had already grabbed a pancake off the top of the stack and taken a huge bite, closing his eyes and making what Jane interpreted as a complimentary sound.

"Not long," Jane told Sam, taking a seat at the table - but she immediately made a face, tilting off the punctured cheek and re-positioning.

"I'll do better next time," Castiel told her, but she waved his apology off.

"It's not your fault. It'll suck the next time, too. That one in particular is just a pain in the... ha-ha-ha." Jane dissolved into a chuckle at her accidental phrasing.

"Mmphgbamphcon," Dean garbled, polishing off the pancake and wiping his hands on his pants.

"It should be ready," Jane replied.

Dean nodded, still chewing, grabbing a dishtowel as he walked to the oven and retrieved the sheet lined with bacon, and Sam shot Jane a look of slight amazement.

"I'm not fluent in 'Dean' yet, but I am fluent in 'hungry'," she informed him.

Sam gave her a shrug of acceptance, putting a plate and fork in front of her, then grabbed the stack of pancakes, asking, "How many?"

"Three, to start."

"You are going to fit in well here," Castiel commented, earning him a grin as he sat beside her.

After getting out butter and syrup, all four ate. The three men noticed, however, that about half-way through her food, Jane seemed to slow considerably. And on what would be her last bite, Dean observed a slight tremble to the fork as she brought it to her mouth. He shot a _look_ to Sam.

Castiel had apparently picked up on the change in her condition as well, and he made a suggestion. "If you're amenable, Jane, perhaps you'd allow me to remove that IV when you go back to your room?"

Jane nodded, then looked to Sam and Dean. "I think, um... I think I'm gonna take a nap. I can help clean up this mess later, if that's okay."

"We've got it. You made it, we clean it," Dean told her. "Them's the rules."

A smile came to her face, and she said, "I need a copy of the rules, then. So I don't break any."

"The main one is, you don't push yourself too hard," Sam said. "That's the only one we care about you breaking."

"Sam's right," Castiel agreed.

"And that next time, I get to cook for you," Dean added.

Jane's eyebrows raised. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. My fish tacos are a religious experience."

"He's so humble, our big brother," Sam said wryly.

Jane eased herself up with help from the table, the smile still on her face. The others stood with her, then Castiel took her arm, walking her back to her room. The brothers had put away the perishable items and Dean was wiping down the counter, but stopped and spoke when Castiel re-entered the kitchen.

"She in bed?"

"Yes, she seemed quite tired. She's resting, and I suspect she'll be asleep shortly."

Dean held up his hand when Sam started to gather the dirty dishes. "That can wait - c'mon, let me show you what I found."

Back in the library, Sam and Castiel stood behind Dean's chair as he brought up several things for them to see on his laptop.

"So, a couple of news bloggers have been talking about electrical activity  kicking up in our neck of the woods," Dean began.

"Wait - like last night? The storm?" asked Sam.

Dean shook his head. "Nope - we're not talking weather." He pointed to the screen. "Check _this_ out."

Dean loaded a video posted online, ran the bar forward to about the three minute mark of a roughly five minute run time, then pressed play. It was taken at night, and a group of teenagers were frantically exiting what appeared to be a fairly ramshackle building. The video was shaky, but the words were clear.

"Did you see that, man?! Did you _see_ that?"

"What the hell _was_ that thing?!"

Several in the back began yelling.

"RUN! RUUUUUN!"

The group seemed to scatter. What followed was almost a full minute filled with shots of two sets of boots, the ground dashing by underneath them as the cameraperson and another person fled. A moment or two of darkness, then heavy breathing as the picture went straight once more. The lens was momentarily blocked by what appeared to be the leaves and branches of a bush.

Slowly, as the camera was being pushed through the greenery, a low shot of the side of the building gradually came into focus; it became apparent they'd crouched, hidden themselves behind nearby foliage. The shaky inhalations and exhalations of the camera's operator continued, but - impressively - the picture remained quite steady.

"Do you see anything?" came a terse whisper, close by.

" _No!_ " was the hissed reply.

And just then, at the side of the building, a familiar hand with long, webbed fingers came around and grasped the edge.

"OH MY GOD!"

"GET OUT OF HERE!"

"WHERE'S THE CAR?!"

As the shot suddenly pitched backwards, a teenager's face came directly into frame, the cameraperson having lost their balance and fallen.

"C'mon, get up! GET UP!" the teen shouted, pulling his friend to their feet.

More running, more gasping, and the group clamored into an SUV, all speaking over one another.

"I already called the cops!"

"Are you _crazy?!_ "

"My dad's gonna kill me!"

"Start the car! START THE CAR!"

And then the camera focused again, out the back window at the building as they sped away. Gangly, shadowy silhouettes slowly appeared around the corner where the hand had been, and at that, the video ended. Dean scrolled down a bit, the first few comments a mix of _so fake_ and _that was sick_ disappearing from view as he expanded the description.

"'This is unedited video taken at the old chapel off of Marley Lane in Hunter, Kansas'," Sam read aloud, then glanced at Dean. "Hunter. That's pretty close, isn't it? Don't we pass there on the way to Jane's?"

Dean nodded. "About fifty miles from here."

"Go back up," Castiel said, and Dean complied. "Can you put it on the clear shot of the boy's face again?" Dean did so, and kept the video paused. "I recognize him. He and the others were brought into the ER this weekend. The police were there, as well. If I recall correctly, due to their blood alcohol level and admittance of other recreational usage, their assertions were discounted."

Sam went to his laptop and after a few minutes, had pulled up the police reports. "They were picked up after they ran a red light once they'd gotten on the main road. The cops were on their way to the church, responding to the 911 call. The kids were so manic, they called an ambulance to have them checked out. Officers patrolled the building, didn't find anything but some empty liquor bottles and a bolt cutter ---"

"A bolt cutter?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Yeah, seems they'd cut the lock - the door had been chained." Sam scanned further. "Spray paint was found in the car, looks like they were planning on trashing the place. After they were cleared medically, they got booked for trespassing."

"Anything else?"

A few more clicks, then Sam's eyebrows raised. "Says that, per the caretaker, the owners declined to press charges." Sam looked over his screen at them. "The kids were released to their parents, given fines. Nothing else on file."

"Can you tell who owns the property?"

"Hang on," Sam replied.

Dean looked to Castiel, asking, "You know anything about this place?"

Castiel shook his head. "Nothing comes to mind."

Dean pulled up a new page, now searching for information on Hunter, and after several minutes with no real success, he gave his report to the others. "There is nada on this place. The town's pretty old, biggest hoorah was when it got a post office in 1895. It's a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of joint."

"You said these beings move quickly, but they travel on foot?" Castiel asked.

"Far as we saw, anyway."

"Perhaps that's why the creatures are there. An out-of-the-way, abandoned building in a place such as this could make an ideal base of operations, particularly as it's within reasonable distance of both here and Jane's. It's certainly a point to consider."

"Yeah, well, they're welcome to try and get at her here," Dean replied, topped off by a steely, come-at-me expression with which Castiel was all too familiar.

"Oh, boy. This is going to take some time," Sam announced, then sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"What?"

"It's a web of companies - nobody's name attached to anything. At least, not the first few."

The brothers looked at each other for a few moments.

"What time you want to head out?" Sam asked.

"When it gets a little darker," answered Dean.

"You're going to go there? _Now?_ " Castiel asked, surprised.

Dean closed his laptop and stood, saying, "I'm not waiting around for answers anymore." When Castiel didn't volunteer approval or dissent, Dean looked over at Sam. "Did Lovecraft mention a way to take these suckers out?"

Sam shook his head, replying, "Just that they don't care for bodies of water."

Dean narrowed his eyes and let out a huff. "They're giant, waterproof, silly putty creepers, and they don't..." He trailed off, a thoughtful look coming to his face, followed by a slow grin and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I got an idea."

Sam and Castiel followed Dean downstairs, to one of the storage rooms. More specifically, the storage that held a barrage of vintage weaponry collected or confiscated by the Men of Letters. Dean moved a few boxes out of his way, then lifted the lid on a large storage locker and knelt beside it. He wrestled with whatever it was for a moment, muttered curses reaching Sam and Castiel's ears. And when he walked back to them, he was carrying a bulky harness. It had a mounted canister, and tubing leading from it to a long nozzle that Dean held in the opposite hand.

"Flammenwerfer," said Castiel.

Sam and Dean looked at him curiously.

"The Germans have a wonderful words for almost everything. They were actually responsible for what we think of as a modern-day flamethrower."

"Okay, well, danke schön," Dean replied. "Point is: we can't shoot 'em, we can't interrogate 'em, but we sure as hell can light 'em up."

"You might light _yourself_ up," Sam pointed out, looking more than a little doubtful.

"I'm going to do some remodeling. We just have to get some propane," Dean told him. Sam rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

"I think I should accompany you ---" Castiel began, but was met with dual protests.

"No way. We want you here, protecting Jane."

"There's more medicine to give and besides, she shouldn't wake up alone."

"And if something comes after her? Just get her out quick, to the other side of the planet if you have to," Dean added. "We'll convince her she was seeing things later."

"Or maybe we could start telling her the _truth_ ," said Sam.

"Jane _will_ need more explanation beyond hallucinations eventually," Castiel agreed.

"Truth of... of _what_ , exactly? You two come up with more answers than I have in the past few hours?" Dean shot back.

Neither Sam nor Castiel had a response.

"All right, then. We leave at sundown."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	7. The Chapel Incident (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demons and angels each get wind of something concerning; the chapel becomes an intersection for a variety of parties, all with their own motives; Jamie returns with new adversaries in tow; Castiel takes a risk to save Jane

* * *

  _"Very superstitious, writing on the wall. Keep me in a daydream, keep me going strong._  
_When you believe in things that you don't understand, then you suffer."_  
_\- as sung by Stevie Wonder: artist & musician, Superstition_

* * *

 

.

CROWLEY'S LOFT  
6:37 P.M.

"But, sir, if you would just allow me to ---"

"No, sir, NO! _Our_ information is clear: the angels already have it ---"

"That is _not_ the case, I believe if we act quickly ---"

"You think just because there was that _one time_ \---"

"Sir, they are trying to be far too cautious, and we cannot afford ---"

Crowley closed his eyes, propping an elbow on one arm of his shabby chair-turned-throne, rubbing his temples with one hand. The opposite hand's fingers were rapping against the chair's other arm.

_Rap._

_Rap._

_Rrrrrap._

None of the dozen or so demons arguing in front of him were paying him any mind. They were his current top-of-the-listers when it came to subjects of strategy and technology, his brainy bunch, and they were bickering like children fighting over a toy. Not a one had managed to utter a complete sentence in almost half an hour.

And Crowley was rapidly losing his patience.

His current second - the slightly nervous minion who'd done so well procuring information on Jane - stood to his right, his typical fidgeting only hitting about a 12 on a 1-to-10 scale, so Crowley at least had that going for him.

"Would you like me to ask them to leave, sir?"

Crowley raised his head, looked over. "Do you suspect they'd even hear you?"

The minion seemed to consider this, but it was cut short by the ringing of Crowley's phone - more specifically, the hook from Beyoncé's _Halo_. Crowley sighed, pulled the phone from his pocket, and pressed _IGNORE_. He tossed it off to his right and the minion bungled his first attempt at a catch, bouncing it off his fingertips and back up into the air, but ultimately caught it. He exhaled a sigh of relief.

"Would you like me to ---"

"No," Crowley answered, cutting him off. "Not interested in talking to _him_ right now."

The minion nodded. He glanced at the screen - one missed call from a contact labeled "Wings".

The argument's volume escalated.

" _I can see your halo, halo, halo_..."

The minion promptly hit _IGNORE_.

"That's ENOUGH!" Crowley thundered, slamming both hands down onto the arms of the chair, standing and then straightening his tie, smoothing his jacket, as the group of demons finally went silent. Crowley slowly walked off the step of the elevated platform on which the chair rested, making a point as he strolled amongst the group to look at each of them directly to obtain their attention before speaking. "Now," he began in an even voice. "One at a time, I would like ---"

" _I can see your halo, halo, halo_..."

Crowley clenched his jaw.

The minion had put the phone in his pocket, and Beyoncé managed to sing out a few more _halo_ s before he dismissed the call.

"Sorry, sir."

Crowley cleared his throat. "So. As I was ---"

" _I can see your halo, halo, halo_..."

Without a word, Crowley extended his arm, and the minion skittered forward, placing the phone in his open palm.

Crowley pointed generically across the group of demons. "I want you to pick one person, and I mean _just one_ , to represent each position in this... this _whatever_ it is ---"

" _...halo, halo, haloooo_..."

"--- by the time I walk back into this room." Crowley stalked towards the double doors. "Slam those behind me!" he instructed the doormen at each, and they did so. He brought the phone to his ear as he stormed down the hallway.

"Speak!"

"Uh...Crowley?"

"Castiel, I'm a bit occupied right now, not to mention you were _abundantly_ clear in your text ---"

"I've changed my mind."

Crowley paused mid-stride. "Oh?" he replied, the roughness easing from his tone.

"I'm concerned Dean and Sam are preparing to put themselves in danger, on the chance they'll learn more about the current situation."

Crowley glanced back at the doors he'd just exited as the volume of the freshly resumed back-and-forth hit a new pitch.

"They are preparing their arms ---"

"Does this danger involve bench-pressing of some sort?"

Castiel sighed, answering, "I mean weapons. And then they will leave, and I'm to stay with Jane. However ---" Castiel stopped himself as he heard a loud noise on Crowley's end. "What was that?"

"Sounds like someone got thrown into a wall, go on," Crowley replied casually, inspecting a fingernail.

"I'm to stay with Jane, but we can meet once she goes to sleep. Before I have to wake her and administer her next round of medication."

Now Crowley heard a crash, something breaking. "Hold on," he told Castiel, then threw one of the doors back open, yelling, " _If any of you lot bleed on that carpet, it's what I'll wrap your body parts in, now STOP IT!_ " Closing the door, Crowley spoke calmly into the phone once more. "Much as I agree we need to get this ball rolling, Cas, as I'm sure you can tell, I've got my own handful of danger-chasing idiots to deal with."

"But ---"

"I'll text you when _and if_ I can meet. Be ready."

Without waiting on the angel's response, Crowley ended the call. Entering the room, he noted that most of the demons looked disheveled, several had bloody lips or noses, but all were silent. He came to a stop in the middle of the large, open living-space-turned-makeshift throne room.

"Well?"

Two stepped forward, glancing first at each other, then to Crowley.

"You," he commanded, pointing to the one on his left.

"Sir, we have information that heaven - that is to say, the angels - have in their possession a weapon that could annihilate demonkind."

"All of us at once, or is there some sort of social graces dictating the order, or....?" Crowley prodded.

"No, sir. Possibly. That part isn't clear ---"

" _None_ of what you have is clear," the other interjected, but shut her mouth promptly at Crowley's scathing gaze.

The first continued with only a scant amount of hesitation. "Our understanding is that it is similar to what the youngest Winchester would do - evict the demon from the host. But then it will suspend and subsequently trap the essence. No spells, no incantations - immediate, possibly permanent, entrapment."

The demon stopped his explanation at that, and Crowley raised his eyebrows, responding, "Trapped... how? In... what? Are we talking banishment to Purgatory? Slipped into an alternate world? Some sort of cage? _Florida?_ "

The demon had no answer, so Crowley looked to the other.

" _Our_ information is that, yes, there is such a weapon, but that the angels have _not_ yet obtained it. That there is a meeting happening, tonight, at which point the weapon will be acquired. If we were to acquire it _first_ , it stands to reason that it could be used on angels in the same manner - forcible eviction from hosts, followed by entrapment."

Crowley's eyebrows raised even more.

She blinked. "That's... that's it, sir...." Then she suddenly held up a finger, adding, "Oh! Our intel _also_ says that part of the weapon _does_ involve a vessel of some sort, which we believe may act as the containment."

The other demon nodded slowly, the first sign of consensus Crowley had seen in them. "It _could_ be something like the Winchester's angel did with the Leviathan. Mass containment," he said.

" _If_ that's what is meant by 'vessel'."

"And if not some sort of... _elite_ angel... that would have to be a sizeable unit, not to buckle under the volume... wouldn't it?"

"Not necessarily," the other replied thoughtfully, her stance relaxing. "If there were enough of a number of a _small_ containment apparatus..."

"I mean, them or us, we _are_ just talking vapor, here, right?"

"Right!"

They chuckled.

Crowley stared.

They noticed and straightened up, standing back at attention.

"Let me see if I understand this," Crowley began slowly, anger hovering ever-so-slightly below the surface of his words. "There's a weapon, which forcibly ejects bad juju, kind've holds it in mid-air, then there's a trapping process of sorts, have I got that?"

The two looked at each other, then back to him, nodding.

Crowley nodded along with them, a look of clearly faux excitement planted on his face. "Uh-huh. Right! Sure!" he said with a light snicker. And then his nodding abruptly ceased, his expression going flat for his next words. "You slobbering knobs just described the plot of _Ghostbusters_."

The group as a collective became noticeably uncomfortable, some gulping, some sharing glances, all clearly under the impression Crowley was about to fly into a rage - but to their surprise, he did not, instead making an inquiry.

"It seems to me the first matter to settle is whether the angels _do_ have something, is it not?"

They all nodded silently.

"Well, then. Despite the fact that I have more important things to do, I can tell that this squalling is never going to end. And since I can't trust you all to play nice, I will accompany you to this supposed meeting tonight between the angels, Egon and Ray. Now where might that be? Nice little firehouse?"

"In Kansas, sir. At an abandoned chapel in a town called Hunter."

. 

* * *

.

MEN OF LETTERS BUNKER  
6:40 P.M.

After Dean and Sam finished loading the overhauled and newly fueled flamethrower into the Impala, they headed back into the bunker proper to get their jackets. They found Castiel waiting for them in the war room, a concerned look on his face. His phone was in his hand, but he put it in his pocket when he saw them enter.

"Are you leaving?"

"Yeah, in a minute. We've got a bit of a drive and this place isn't exactly on the map," Dean replied, pulling his jacket off the back of a chair and putting it on.

"Is Jane awake?" asked Sam. "I wanted to tell her bye."

"No, not the last time I checked," Castiel replied, but as if on cue, Jane entered the room.

"Hey everybody," she said, her voice not exactly weak but also not completely all there. All three were shocked to note her pallor and slow, careful gait as she came towards them. She'd put Sam's hoodie back on and had her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes had faint circles underneath them. "You guys headed out?" she asked.

"Do we need to turn the heat up for you?" Sam asked in return, a concerned look on his face.

"Why aren't you in bed?" Dean asked right after him, not giving her a chance to answer.

A touch of amusement came over Jane's face. "Sometimes I pee. And other times I need something to drink. Then the whole damn thing starts all over again."

"I apologize, I should've noticed that you ---" Castiel began.

"Yeah, you should've," Dean cut him off abruptly, with a cherry of a stern expression on top.

Castiel glanced at him, then back to Jane. "I'll get something for you to drink right now," he told her, turning and going to the kitchen.

"Be kind," Jane admonished Dean gently. Looking to Sam, she said, "And no, the temp's fine. I'm just chilled, it will pass."

Sam nodded. "We're just... well, Dean has a follow-up on a case to deal with, we were just gonna pop out for a little while."

"Oh, okay. Not too far away, then?"

"Nah, it'll just be a couple hours round trip, maybe a couple more hours to knock it out. Worst case scenario, we'll still be back before you wake up in the morning," said Dean.

"But it's nothing too..." Jane trailed off momentarily before continuing. "Sorry, I don't mean to be a worrywart. Is Mr. Crowley coming to help or is he mostly an office kind of guy?"

"He'll get in the mix sometimes, but not tonight. This is mostly recon. Just... beating the bushes, seeing what crawls out," Dean answered.

Sam gave Dean a bit of a side-eye on that one, then he looked back to Jane, saying, "Don't worry."

Jane shrugged. "Eh. Probably still will. Comes with the territory."

Castiel came back then with a glass of water in one hand and a can of soda in the other, setting them both on the table.

"Looks like you can pick your poison," Dean commented. He shot Sam a pointed glance, picking up the other man's jacket and handing it to him. "It's about that time."

Sam nodded.

"See you later, Janey. Sweet dreams," Dean said to Jane, ruffling her hair as he passed, and Castiel followed after him.

Jane raised her eyebrows at Sam, amused. "That was wei --- _OOF!_ " Her comment was stifled, as Sam had tossed his jacket back onto the chair, enveloping her in a huge hug. It caught her off-guard, but she reciprocated. He didn't speak, and Jane allowed herself a few moments to listen to his steady heartbeat. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here when y'all get back," she told him softly.

Sam sighed, squeezed a little tighter, replying, "I know."

"Okay. Just be safe, and tell me all about it tomorrow."

He pulled back almost reluctantly and put on his jacket. Jane picked up her drinks, and they began to walk in opposite directions. But Sam paused, turning around again.

"Hey, Jane?"

She turned as well, meeting his eyes. "Yeah?"

Sam briefly looked conflicted before he spoke. "I love you."

Jane tilted her head slightly, and her brow creased a bit as she looked at him, not because of _what_ he'd said, but _how_ he'd said it. Like he was shipping off to war. Or like he thought she'd be dead before the next time he saw her. And Sam got nervous when she didn't respond right away, though it faded when her face relaxed and a slow, sweet smile accompanied her response.

"I love you right back."

Then they turned, going their separate ways.

.  
/ / / /  
.

In the garage, Sam found Castiel and Dean in a heated conversation by the Impala, the scene appearing as if the angel had placed himself between Dean and the driver's side door.

"And _I'm_ just saying, we have a location and a solid lead. You know us better than to think we're just gonna tear in there like hell on wheels. We'll scope it out first."

Dean's tone wasn't terribly agitated, but the facial expression and stiff posture told Sam that his brother was poised to get nasty if Castiel didn't get out of the way. Which Castiel should've known. Which irritated Sam.

"Cas, what are you _doing?_ " he asked, walking over and standing next to Dean.

"If you both would give me a some time, let me get Jane settled, or perhaps Andrew could come--"

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "You're insane," he declared. He looked to Sam. "He's insane." Back to Castiel, adding crossed arms to the mix. "Are you _on_ something? In what universe are we letting Andrew have free reign of this bunker, huh? Letting him have the chance to do more stuff to her?"

Sam took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, trying to curb his own bubbling anger before he spoke. "Cas, there's been _multiple_ conversations today where we all agreed that Jane's safety is the top priority--"

"I _understand_ that."

"--and you're the only one we can trust to make that happen. If I could've zapped her straight here when we found her trapped with those things, don't you think I would've?"

Castiel was silent.

"At the end of the day, we can't do what you can. But we're still a team. Right now, we're on offense, and you're our best defense."

Dean remained stone-faced, watching Castiel as Sam's words sunk in.

Castiel nodded and moved away from the car.

"We'll call if there's an emergency," Dean said, climbing in. After Sam followed suit, Dean cranked the engine and they left.

Castiel's phone vibrated.

A text from Crowley - nothing save a longitude and latitude, followed by a time.

. 

* * *

.

TWO MILES OUTSIDE HUNTER, KANSAS  
7:57 P.M.

Though they'd made good time on the road, it had taken Dean and Sam a little while to locate the chapel. The road running by the small hill on which it was situated no longer had a sign. Based on what they could tell, the road technically didn't exist, at least not in name, seeing as how the land surrounding the chapel was no longer in use. Doing a bit of research en route, Sam had managed to find more - albeit scant - information.

"I think a handful of settlers were living around there, back before it was actually a town. This one guy, Marley ---"

"Like the road name?"

"Yeah, that'd be my guess. Looks like he was the wealthiest of the bunch, volunteered his land for the building. It used to be tiny - was originally one of those church-school combos like they used to do," Sam continued. "Found a blog about historical sites, said before they sold, the family wanted to preserve it, get it on the registry, but never did. I guess people just kept adding onto the original structure."

"So, what, the land was always private property?"

"Looks like," Sam said, and he set his phone on the dash, leaning forward and squinting out the window. "Wait a minute, back up."

Dean did so, and then the headlights caught what Sam had seen - a small wooden fence, largely obscured by overgrowth along the side of the road, and beyond it, they could barely make out a dirt road leading up the hill. It seemed as if at some point, the turn-off had gotten washed out, because the Impala dipped down significantly when Dean tried to carefully navigate it off the pavement and closer to the fence. Then he heard the undercarriage scrape slightly.

"Nope," he announced, putting it in reverse and slowly easing them back onto the road.

"Those kids _were_ in an SUV," Sam commented.

Dean went forward and did a u-turn at the four-way stop, pointing the car back towards the small town square, which was filled with plenty of parking spaces for the shops and offices that had already closed for the night.

"Hope you're up for a hike."  
.

* * *

.

Jane had eaten a small dinner of soup and crackers, all that Castiel could convince her to try, before taking her bedtime pills. Fortunately, there was only one injection to give at that point, however he'd be waking her up throughout the night to give her four more. She'd been napping off-and-on since that afternoon, but fitfully.

Not to mention how he'd caught her wandering the halls, in and out of the spare bedrooms, and though she agreeably went back to bed at his prodding, Castiel was growing concerned. If the pattern held, there was no way he'd be able to sneak out to meet Crowley. His outing wouldn't simply be a pit stop - he had more questions that needed answers, chiefly regarding who exactly were going to be running the blood tests.

Crowley _had_ provided some information, assuring him that they would have the results within 24 hours, though even _that_ was starting to seem too long. Castiel had heard from Andrew only once, not long after Dean and Sam had set out for the chapel, calling to check on Jane's status. To the angel's surprise, Andrew had not asked to speak with Jane, only asking a few questions regarding her vital signs and the neurological assessments Castiel had been tasked with doing every few hours. Then the doctor had ended the call brusquely, stating he had to get back to work.

Castiel glanced at the time. He'd already changed back into his typical garb, Jane's bloodwork retrieved from the trash and now in his trench coat pocket. With a deep sigh, he made his decision. Going first to the kitchen, he pulled all four of the overnight injections as a precaution, putting them in the opposite pocket from the tubes. Entering Jane's room, he was surprised to find her sitting up in bed. She was still, staring down at her hands. Following a sniffle, she brought one up to swipe at her nose.

"Is everything alright?" Castiel asked.

Jane looked up, not crying, but tearful. "Um, yeah. I... I had a bad dream, is all," she answered quietly. She took in his appearance. "Hey, look at you - real clothes."

"I'm afraid I have to run a pressing errand that cannot wait. But I also cannot in good conscience leave you alone."

"Oh. Well... honestly, I could probably do with a change of scenery. I don't mind riding with you, if you don't mind the company."

Ideal, it wasn't - but it would have to do.

"I'm bringing the next injections, just in case," Castiel told her, walking over and picking up her clothes, which were folded and lying on a chair, then bringing them to her. "We'll put a pillow and blanket in the back seat for you. Perhaps being on the road will lull you to sleep."

Jane shook her head, dropping her gaze again. "I don't wanna go to sleep," she responded, her voice barely above a whisper.

Castiel's brow creased. He pulled the chair to the side of the bed and sat. "Are you in any pain?"

"Cas, something's always sore or aching or tingling. It's not that."

"What can I do to help?"

Jane shrugged, answering, "I've just been trying to keep my mind busy. I counted all the bricks in here..." She trailed off, glancing briefly at the brick wall, then looked back at him with the barest hint of a smile. "Did you know every room I've seen has... I mean, not the library, but... there's a sink and mirror in all of them. Even the kitchen. That's crazy."

Castiel remained silent. Jane looked back down at her hands. With one, she ran a thumb over the nails of the other.

"It's the small things you miss. I miss being able to paint my fingernails. Isn't that stupid?"

Castiel looked at her sympathetically. "Would you like to tell me about what's bothering you?"

Another shake of the head.

"All right, then," Castiel said, standing and moving the chair back to its place. He didn't want to push her, but she seemed to sense his urgency.

"Just, um... just give me a little while... brush my hair and my teeth..." Jane still seemed distracted with her thoughts, but did pull back the covers and dangled her legs over the bed. She took several deep breaths in-and-out before standing. Ever the experienced patient, she kept upright for a few more breaths before walking towards him, and the door.

Castiel escorted her as far as the bathroom, waited, then escorted her back, resuming his waiting outside the closed door. By the time she emerged, clothes changed, it had been more than a little while - close to a half hour. Dean and Sam were probably already at the chapel, and the time to meet Crowley was rapidly approaching.

But when he saw her next, she appeared to have perked up. She had left her hair down, pulling it back on either side with small barrettes, even put on some shiny red lip gloss - both good signs, as it indicated her hands weren't trembling. Walking up the stairs into the garage, she barely leaned on Castiel at all. And for no other reason than because he thought she might enjoy it, instead of piling into the most recent sedan he'd been using for nursing masquerade duty, Castiel retrieved the keys to a '51 Packard from the pegboard.

"Oh, _wow_ ," Jane said, her eyes growing wide as she watched him pull the cover off of the car.

Castiel opened one of the back doors, a genuine smile on his face. "Your chariot awaits."

She clapped her hands together several times in applause and climbed inside. Castiel handed her the blanket and pillow he'd brought along, then got into the driver's seat. He paused briefly, wondering if Dean had serviced this particular car in recent past. And he mentally thanked his friend when it started smoothly and the gas gauge was on full.

"Are we going to get in trouble for playing hooky?" Jane asked as he pulled out of the parking space.

Castiel considered this for a moment. "I won't tell if you won't."

"Good plan."

. 

* * *

.

8:33 P.M.

The chapel off of Old Marley had been built, partially burnt down, re-built, added on to, then continued to suffer multiple disasters as parts of it were faithfully re-built again.

While most of its ills came from natural occurrences, at some point the townsfolk who'd used it and cared for it off-and-on throughout the years opted to take the hint and give up. The last was the congregation who'd experienced the plane crash - they _did_ try to make the best of it, and used what funds they had for repairs, hoping to sell the building and the parcel of land it sat upon for enough profit to build again elsewhere. They ended up meeting in the local high school's gymnasium for a period, but eventually did get a new space - clear on the other side of Hunter.

So although the land, and thereby the chapel, had new ownership, no one in town knew who exactly that owner _was_ , nor did they pay much mind. Thanks to re-zoning in later years, it was not quite in Hunter proper, and so their tax dollars didn't have to go to things like road repairs or maintenance of the surrounding trees and foliage to prevent interference with phone or electrical lines. Primarily because none ran near the land any longer.

The poles remained, to the delight of the hawks or owls who would often perch on them, scoping out the crossroad, awaiting help from passing cars to secure their next meal. Put simply, no one cared, and no one _cared_ that no one cared. The only occasional annoyance fell to the county police, who had to deal with trespassing ghost hunters convinced the chapel's sordid history must be due to otherworldly causes - and, of course, wily teenagers.

There had been a cleared out area, used as a parking lot for parishioners, just off the narrow road that led up the hill after the turn-off, to the side of the chapel where the top of the hill evened out. But it never got paved, and subsequently had long been overgrown with weeds and wild grass. The outside of the chapel itself was ragged, layers of paint showing through the chips and cracks, various slats hanging on by their last nail.

All the windows on the ground floor had at least a few broken-out panes, allowing for all manner of maple leaves and twigs and spiny sycamore balls and other tree detritus to take up residence inside. Birds would come during the season to pick up the hackberries, apparently the only maintenance workers to speak of. It wasn't clear based on appearances what the duties of caretaker from the police report actually _were_.

Dean and Sam learned at least one duty after they'd climbed the hill and concealed themselves behind some trees to watch the building for a moment. There was a new lock connecting two narrow chains that were drilled into the frame on either side of the small double-doors. Not a terribly effective deterrent; more of a _suggestion_ to would-be vandals.

And putting aside that they'd have to bust out the remaining glass, the windows were all fairly narrow. Between the men's sizes and their new toy, climbing in without a lot of noise wasn't exactly an option. So, through the door it had to be.

"That frame's about done for, a stiff wind would probably ---" Dean was beginning to whisper to Sam, when he was startled by the screech of an owl, causing him to jerk his head up and around, frowning.

Sam couldn't help but grin.

"Well that's not creepy at all," Dean muttered.

Then the wind whipped up, and the clapper hit the side of the worn-down bell in the steeple, giving off an out-of-tune clang.

" _Okay!_ " Dean hissed into the night. " _Jeez!_ "

"That rules out the wind - you wanna head around back, see if there's another way in? Or did you bring your lock picks?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, here." Dean pulled the pack of tiny tools from one of his jacket pockets, handing them over. "Want me to keep lookout from here, or...?"

Sam nodded. "Shouldn't take too long."

.  
/ / / /  
.

Behind the chapel amongst another cluster of trees, Crowley waited impatiently. Castiel was late. He'd wanted the hand-off over and done with so he could then pop away to meet his contact and get back before his demons noticed he was gone.

As futile as he found this excursion to be, it ultimately worked to his favor that his closest circle was distracted. They would've asked too many questions and he couldn't afford to kill them all, small as his current contingent was. Cursing under his breath, he pulled out his phone to text the angel exactly what was on his mind, when he looked down to see Rick and Morty on the home screen.

His second's cell.

"That idiot," he muttered, stuffing the phone in the back pocket of his slacks so it would be good and warm when he threw it at the soon-to-be-demoted demon's head. He'd given the minion his phone to hold after his last text to Castiel, whilst changing his suit to one he cared less about getting soiled, assuming something interesting actually happened that night. Apparently, the minion had returned _his_ phone without looking.

Crowley was enjoying dreaming up an appropriate punishment aside from a simple demotion when a vintage automobile suddenly materialized to his right. Raising an eyebrow, he watched as Castiel emerged. The door was closed carefully and quietly.

Castiel walked towards Crowley, glancing briefly to the back of the building at his right, all with a deep frown on his face. "Why are we ---"

"Ssshh! Lower your voice."

Castiel felt his jaw begin to tighten. "Why _here_?" he whispered tersely.

Now Crowley adopted his own frown, saying, "Why _not_? I'm supervising what's likely to be an exercise in stupidity, thought I'd kill two birds."

"You have others here?"

"Inside. _You_ supposedly have people here, too, by the way."

"I know."

"You mean there's actually something _to_ this lunacy? Castiel, I know we aren't exactly friends, but this is likely something that should've come up somewhere during our little Hardy Boys routine."

Castiel's eyes narrowed, looking at Crowley as if he'd lost his mind. "Why would it matter to you that Dean and Sam are out hunting a creature?"

"Moose and Squirrel are skulking about? _Here_?"

"Making this a most inopportune meeting spot... wait, who do you _think_ I meant?"

"There's a supposed hand-off to be taking place here shortly, between angels and who-knows-who, for some sort of weapon that sounds like a load of bollocks but has my lot all atwitter."

Castiel opened his mouth but didn't respond, because Crowley held a finger to his lips. He peered over Castiel's shoulder. A sly grin came over the demon's face.

"Did you bring a date, Cas? That's why the fancy car, to distract from your ever-drab wardrobe of choice?"

Castiel's brow creased as he turned his head to look.

Jane had fallen into a restless sleep not long into the drive, around the same time Castiel had gotten a bad feeling about where they were going. And when they were close enough to the coordinates that he realized his gut was right, Castiel had turned off the headlights and left the car parked about a mile past the crossroads, leaving Jane to sleep while he quickly checked out the surrounding area. Other than a cranky owl atop an unused utility pole, there was no sign of life. No sign of Sam and Dean, or the Impala. So upon his return to the car, he'd simply hedged his bets and blinked it up to the area behind the chapel, where it would be hidden from the road.

But now he saw what had caught Crowley's attention - movement inside the backseat of the car.

Jane was awake, climbing out, and headed their way.

"Can't believe you brought her, _also_ can't believe you didn't _knock her OUT_ ," Crowley hissed. "Just hand it over and start thinking of a lie."

Castiel removed the tubes from his trench and passed them quickly to Crowley, who stuffed them in his inside jacket pocket just as Jane approached, still groggy.

"Mr. Crowley?" Jane asked, coming to a stop beside them.

The wind blew harshly then, taking what felt like hundreds of dying leaves from the trees, and causing Jane to shiver and rub her arms. She only had on her cardigan, her coat apparently left in the car. They heard the faint ring of a bell.

"Hello again, my dear."

Castiel immediately took off his trench and put it around Jane's shoulders. Appearing to be still half-asleep, she put her arms through the sleeves and re-wrapped them around herself on auto-pilot.

"What are you --- _Oh!_ " Jane cut herself off with a sharp intake of air, her eyes going wide.

Castiel followed her gaze, to the trees behind Crowley, and it was his expression of disbelief that caused the demon to turn.

"My, my, my," he said, watching as three of the creatures like the ones from Jane's apartment came towards them.

Crowley began to slowly back up, gesturing behind himself for them to do the same. Castiel instinctively stepped in front of Jane, reaching one arm back to keep contact with her - which she readily clutched - while keeping his other arm close to his side, prepared to release and use his blade.

"I'm not... I... I didn't dream it," Jane said, mostly to herself.

"I am afraid you did not," Castiel confirmed in a grave tone.

Crowley backed into Castiel abruptly, and when he once again turned to look behind, he saw the reason their retreat had halted. Four more of the creatures had come from seemingly nowhere. And now the trio were effectively surrounded. Still clutching Castiel's arm, Jane latched onto a wad of his suit jacket with her other hand, burying her face between his shoulders and whimpering softly, terrified.

Just then, several men in three-piece suits emerged from a door on the backside of the chapel. All in black, including their waistcoats, shirts and ties, they sported identical eye wear - small, black, rectangular-framed, with lightly tinted lenses. They stalked towards the group with stern expressions.

Castiel was momentarily relieved, noting they appeared to be demons.

Crowley, however, was rigid and expressionless.

"They aren't yours?" Castiel whispered.

"Never seen them before in my life." Crowley cut his eyes over to meet Castiel's, adding on a clarification. "My _entire_ life."

"Then ---"

"Someone's been making demons."

.  
/ / / /  
.

Prior to Castiel's arrival, when Crowley and his posse of demons landed on the scene, they had simply blinked right inside the chapel. Had they entered through the front doors, they would have found themselves in a small vestibule. It must have funneled schoolchildren or parishioners - depending on the time frame - quite effectively, allowing for a teacher or pastor to greet the arrivals by twos and threes. One wall of the entryway appeared newer than the other, but both held doorways. The older of the two had a door with faded painted lettering reading _BELFRY_. The opposite had no door and its berth was wider. A long set of stairs could be seen, leading up to the balcony seating.

Beyond, there was a fairly sizable open area, allowing people to mill about before or after services, and from there the chapel seemed to expand. It was larger than it appeared on the outside, most of its size due to the high ceiling. The main sanctuary area extended forward, a broken pulpit lying on its side on a raised area at the end of the nave. Further behind there was another raised area, and a large table, perhaps for communion, was nestled in a semi-circular alcove.

Just off the open area, what seemed to be newer transept additions were to the right and left, though the left still held scaffolding and drop cloths from an abandoned renovation. Its ceiling had caved in, taking the top of two walls partially with it, leaving it open to the elements, the wooden floor on this side rotted and ruined. Small sets of stairs were here and there - three or four leading from the open area down to the aisle, another few leading up to the raised area were the pulpit once sat upright, and two leading up to the alcove. A worn, threadbare runner going up the main aisle in the center separated two rows of pews.

Several chandeliers dangled at various intervals over the back open area, and several more were sprinkled above the pews. The wrecked transept and balcony were fairly dark, but the intact transept and the sanctuary itself were bright with light - someone had placed candles in the chandeliers and in tall pole candelabras that were at the end of every other row of pews, on the sides nearest the walls. Anywhere there were railings or a still-intact window ledge, larger pillar candles had been placed and lit as well.

The demons included the small group who had been arguing back at the lair, in addition to around fifteen more that Crowley considered the muscle of his current followers.

"Nice of them to set the mood," one of them had commented dryly.

"Apparently we aren't as early as we thought, sir," Crowley's minion had said a bit nervously.

"Get it done," Crowley had ordered them, then looked to his minion. "I expect _you_ to keep them in line. I'll be outside dealing with anything that comes up."

And with that, their leader had blinked away.

"C'mon, let's spread out. Someone keep a line of sight on that balcony door," another demon said.

The minion looked nervous, and the first demon sighed, rolled his eyes.

"Just stick with us."

And the minion was glad for it, because not five minutes later a harsh whisper of an alert met his ears.

" _Someone's here!_ "

The minion felt the demon closest to him grab his arm, and suddenly he found himself huddled with three more demons, behind a pew about half-way up the aisle.

And although it was dark at the entryway, with their eyes, all of them saw clearly who the new arrival - _arrivals_ \- were.

The Winchester brothers had paused at the edge of the small vestibule, noting the six or so switches of a panel on the wall. Sam flicked a few, but Dean nudged Sam with his elbow, pointed to the candles that had apparently been stuffed in the sockets meant for bulbs. Sam shot him a _that's strange_ sort-of look, and they continued on.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," one of the demons with the minion muttered, upon seeing Sam slowly ease into the open area, an angel blade out and ready.

The minion carefully peeked above the back of the pew, right in time to spot another figure coming through the door. Distracted by his nervousness, he hadn't yet flicked over to his darkened eyes and did not see much more than shadows. But once the light began to improve his view, what he saw made him gasp.

"He was _right_! It's a proton pack!" whispered the minion, now panicky, fumbling in his jacket for his phone, planning to call Crowley and alert him - but of course, he dropped it to the floor with a clatter, earning him death stares from his companions.

Dean had entered, wearing the harness with the flamethrower, the long barrel in his hand. He turned and, backing into the open area, began glancing up towards the balcony when he was startled by the noise. Whipping around and hitting the ignition switch briefly, a small plume of fire emitted ahead of him.

"So much for the element of surprise," Sam whispered to him wryly.

Back behind the pew, one of the demons picked up the dropped phone.

"Oh no, it cracked," the minion whined, looking at the screen. Then he did a double take - it wasn't his phone. He frowned. "That's Crowley's."

The demon looked down - a text had come through from "Wings".

.

_Had to drive - be there shortly_

.

"So he's colluding with an angel? And the Winchesters, _again_?" he said with a sneer, and all three of the demons looked over at the minion, those death stares returning.

"I bet it's _their_ angel, Castiel," one whispered. "Crowley's teamed up with that one before, the slime."

"I... I had no idea... I swear!" the minion whispered, pleading.

"Eh, I believe it," another of the demons said. "You _lucked_ into being his second, some of us have been loyal to him all the way back before the rift and ---"

" _Ssshh_ ," the first admonished, as Dean and Sam were edging closer to the main sanctuary.

The hunters were sticking near each other, speaking in lowered voices as they eased down the steps, continuing to move forward at a slow pace.

"You spot anything yet?" Sam asked.

"Nope," Dean replied as they made their way up the aisle. "I'm waiting to see the pile of romance novels and the bubble bath. What is _up_ with all these candles?

Sam replied with a question of his own, asking, "Why no electricity? A generator or something?"

Dean stopped by the steps at the front of the aisle and stared at Sam with an _are you kidding me?_ expression.

"They don't have _eyes_ , why the hell would they need candles _or_ elec ---"

Dean cut himself off, both he and Sam jerking their heads towards the entryway as a light appeared, brighter than that given off by the candles. It was pushing through the seams where the doors met each other, as well as around the frame. Then it increased in intensity and took on a familiar blue hue. The brothers looked back to each other, hopping up the handful of narrow steps, practically diving behind the upturned pulpit, and just in time. The doors blew off the hinges, shooting into the chapel, shredded into bits and pieces of wood. From within the fading glow, silhouettes began to appear. At least twenty angels strode in, blades at the ready as they surveyed the space.

"So where is it?"

"Relax, they'll get here. We're early."

"I still don't trust this."

"No warding, I don't see any sigils. Anyone?"

Various angels shook their heads in response.

"See? You're paranoid."

Behind the pulpit, Sam and Dean looked at each other questioningly. Then their eyes grew wide as they saw demons emerging from various points around the chapel, gradually coming out from behind pews, as well as both transepts. Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up, mouthing silently.

_Call Cas?_

Dean shook his head, pointed with two fingers to his eyes, then turned them out to the crowd.

_Let's watch_.

Sam nodded, returning his phone, and resuming his tight grip on the blade.

Dean motioned for Sam to help him, and together they carefully removed the harness, quietly tucking the flamethrower into the space in the back of the overturned pulpit. Not that any noise they made would have mattered - a heated discussion was ramping up in the sanctuary. And Dean took the opportunity to whisper to Sam.

"The demons _had_ to have seen us. You know the angels scanned the building, they know humans are in here. So what gives?"

Sam had been carefully peering around the edge of the pulpit, but glanced at Dean as he responded.

"Sounds like they've got bigger concerns."

.  
/ / / /  
.

Outside, Castiel had turned and wrapped his arms around Jane, who continued to clutch onto him.

"I'm getting you out of here."

Yet nothing happened. He couldn't blink away. He looked to Crowley with a shocked expression.

"Not just you," Crowley mumbled to him, then focused on the demons, speaking at a normal volume. "I don't believe we've met, I --"

But he didn't have time to negotiate because the creatures broke their circle enough to let the demons near their captives, and in a split second, Castiel and Crowley - along with Jane and the demons - found themselves in the darkened balcony of the chapel. The only light was that which was coming off the chandeliers and another one of the tall candelabras. The demons left them near the wall that contained the doorway with the steps leading down to the vestibule. One of the larger demons broke off, moving to stand in it, while the rest walked away, cutting through the pews to the other end of the balcony, which was pitch black.

"There's more," Crowley informed Castiel.

Castiel was still holding Jane in a tight embrace - she was gripping the lapels of his jacket, her shaking intensifying, almost like chills, and he felt her tears on his neck. He heard hushed voices from the far end of the balcony. He also heard a variety of raised voices below him, but none of that mattered to him at the moment.

"It's going to be all right," he whispered to Jane, smoothing her hair and trying to comfort her as best he could.

"That it is!"

An overly-cheerful voice cut through the darkness, eliciting a palpable reaction from Jane - Castiel heard her sharp intake of air, felt her stiffen despite the trembles.

Footsteps came towards them at a quick clip. One man was front and center, the demons who'd brought them in walking slowly behind, then fanning out and positioning themselves around the balcony. He did not wear the glasses, nor was he outfitted in monochromatic wear; he was much flashier. Pinky ring, cuff links, a diamond stud in one ear, navy pinstripe suit, paired with a shirt and tie and pocket square that had different but complementary patterns. It was all immaculately tailored and expensive, Crowley knew, but in poor taste - at least, in his opinion. The man obviously did not adhere to the classic tip of looking in the mirror right before you leave your house and removing one accent. He seemed to _add_ one, perhaps in the hopes of imitating style or wealth.

"I tell ya, I didn't expect to see you here, Your-Former-Majesty," the man said conversationally, and with a broad smile, he extended his hand as he approached.

"And you are...?" Crowley asked crisply, keeping his hands clasped behind his back, eyeing the man up and down, pointedly ignoring the outstretched hand.

The man retracted his arm, continuing to smile, seemingly not offended. "Well, _I'm_ the one who organized this party. I knew I could get a bunch of rowdy and suspicious angels and demons to show, but the elusive Crowley! _Wow!_ I'm impressed with myself and thinking less of you."

Crowley's eyes narrowed.

"And did you also arrange for the Winchesters to be here?" asked Castiel.

"What?" Jane gasped, in a barely audible voice.

Their host took a step to his side so he was standing directly in front of Castiel. "Afraid so, Cas," he replied in a patronizing tone, a fake pout briefly crossing his face. "Not too hard on that end, either. Knew you'd end up here, too. But I _really_ didn't imagine _any_ of you would be stupid enough to bring her along for the ride. Saved us the trouble of some old fashioned bunker-busting, though, sooooo... I guess... thanks for that?" He chuckled, his henchmen snickered and, apparently appreciative for the response, he briefly turned to look in their direction as he tacked on another thought. "It's just turning out to be a night _full_ of surprises, am I right?"

When he looked back, he noted Jane's head slowly turning from Castiel's shoulder so she could level a glare at him.

"Aw, don't be like that, sweetheart," he said, extending a hand as if to touch her cheek.

Castiel jerked Jane away from his reach and towards the wall.

The man _tsk_ 'ed. "Play nice, Cas," he warned in a low voice. His eyes had not changed to that of a demon, but they were steely and menacing all the same. And he kept them trained on Castiel as he took a step back, only breaking eye contact as he raised up on his toes, briefly glancing over the balcony railing, then looking back at his hostages. With a sharp clap of his hands and an unsettling grin, he pointed at Crowley. "Okay! You - go with them. Looks like you may be needed downstairs."

Crowley raised his eyebrows, asking, "Excuse me?"

"Your peeps are outnumbered. The angels  _mighta_ been under the impression that the demons had this thingy that would, y'know, _annihilate_ them." The statement was capped off with a blasé shrug.

"And I'm to go with -" Crowley was cut off, having been grabbed on either arm by two of the demons from earlier. They pulled him to the stairwell with apparent ease. The demon guarding it calmly stepped to the side to let them pass, then resumed his bouncer-like stance.

"I'm not leaving her," Castiel said, anticipating a similar removal.

"No, no! Wouldn't dream of it. Not _yet_ , at least," the man replied with smirk.

Castiel then felt Jane's posture slump, and she whispered, "I don't feel so hot."

And their kidnapper must have heard her, because he said, "Come, come - why don't we all sit, enjoy the show! Looks like your brothers are cowering right now, but I betcha they'll be jumping in the fray pretty soon."

"We're fine right here," said Castiel, taking a few steps back towards the wall and, leaning against it with Jane, carefully eased them both to the ground.

"The... air feels... feels funny," Jane said, sounding almost breathless. She pulled her inhaler out of her cardigan pocket, barely getting the medicine inside her mouth when it was suddenly snatched out of her hand.

"Nope! Won't need that anymore!" their captor announced, still in that inappropriately bouncy, happy tone. He tossed the inhaler over his shoulder and into the darkness. It bounced off a pew and hit the floor with a tiny clatter, eliciting more snickers from their audience. He dropped into a squat, putting himself on eye level with Jane.

"Jamie, what... what are you _doing?_ " she managed to get out.

Castiel frowned. "You _know_ this demon?" he asked, pulling back to look down at her, and it concerned him to see she was growing pale, the circles under her eyes beginning to darken.

Jane brought her head up to look at him, an equal amount of confusion written all over her face. " _Demon?_ " she repeated.

Jamie sighed, then said, "Calamity, I am afraid I have to be the bearer of bad news ---" a brief pause, a quick chuckle "--- and I'm pretty sure this is the non-Alanis type of ironic, because I happen to be the one who's about to tell you the whole truth."

Jane stared, expressionless. "You? The _truth_?" she responded flatly.

"And nothing but."

She seemed to be gearing up for a retort when she gulped, looked away, eyes landing on a random spot somewhere on the floor. Then she began blinking, as if she was trying to focus. She also brought a hand to her stomach. "Ugh. _Why_ am I so _nauseous?_ "

Jamie rose to a standing position again, straightening out his jacket and his shirt cuffs as he answered. "Side-effect of dispersal travel. It'll pass." A pause. "Well. I _think_."

"Disperse... _what?_ "

Jamie sighed again, and dramatically. "Oh, Jane Jane Jane Jane _Jane_. Here," he said, reaching out and moving his hands in a _come to me_ gesture.

Castiel glared at him, holding onto her firmly, which was met with a roll of the eyes.

"You can come too, angel-face."

Neither Castiel nor Jane moved, and Jamie's demeanor instantly hardened.

"Stand _up_. Come _here_. _Take_ a _look_."

Castiel took note of several of the demon henchmen moving in their direction - then, with seemingly divine timing, the ones who had escorted Crowley downstairs returned, and immediately came to a stop only a few steps away.

"You're going to have to help me," Jane whispered very softly into Castiel's ear. "I can't feel my legs very well."

Without a word, Castiel stood, pulling Jane up with him. She managed to take a few feeble steps with his help, but he suddenly realized just how weak she was getting. The hand of the arm she'd put around his waist no longer gripped as tightly. He noted her flexing the fingers of the opposite hand, as if she were trying to coax sensation back into them.

"This is close enough," Castiel said once they were about four or five feet away from the railing.

Jamie shrugged. Hands in pockets, he was the picture of relaxation. Now he casually leaned against one of the support beams that were at various intervals, this one happening to be in the center of the balcony and its railing, in direct alignment with the aisle below. "Suit yourself," he replied, turning his head and gazing out over what was rapidly escalating into a full-on brawl.

. 

* * *

.

Crowley's escorts had hauled him down the stairs, across the open area, and up the aisle to the front of the chapel so quickly, he'd stumbled more than a few times.

Several push-and-shove matches and clusters of arguments around the sanctuary began to fade, the various combatants turning to watch the newcomers as they effortlessly pushed some aside, knocking into others, unfazed and not breaking stride. They unceremoniously tossed Crowley away from them, causing him to momentarily land in a heap upon the steps going up to the pulpit area. Then they turned, marching back through the crowd towards the stairwell. One of the angels attempted to block their path, and with a faint, unified turn of their heads, they sent her careening across the floor.

The angels and demons all looked at one another, then to Crowley, watching as he stood, brushing off his suit, keeping his back to them.

"Boys, you better come out here," he said out of the side of his mouth, glancing briefly at the still-hidden Sam and Dean.

"Yeah, sure," Dean whispered back sarcastically.

"This is bigger than you think."

"We picked up on that!" hissed Sam.

"Did you come here to gloat?"

An angel had spoken up loudly, pulled away from the crowd, and was stalking down the aisle.

Crowley turned to face his accuser. "Say again?"

" _HE_ was your source?!" another angel asked the first. "And you didn't think this was a set-up? And _I'm_ paranoid!"

"Hardly!" the first angel shot back. "A mole in his organization. I _saw_ part of the weapon schematics and ---"

"Was your mole one of _those_ lovely fellows?" Crowley bellowed, interrupting their argument and pointing back the way he'd come.

"How do we know they _aren't_ yours, you slime?"

"Maybe he's just got Lucifer on a leash again, there's your demon-making factory, one-stop shop!" an angel chimed in.

"Yeah! Did you start making 'em _before_ or _after_ faking your death, when ---"

" _STOP!_ "

The crowd quieted, now looking in the direction of the voice - and the emerging figures - coming from behind Crowley. Dean and Sam stepped forward, and Dean was holding both hands in front of him as he continued.

"Just _stop_ for a damn second. All of you need to calm the hell down!"

More of Crowley's demons began edging their way forward.

"This has all been an elaborate set-up, you morons!" Crowley told them harshly.

"Not winning anyone over," Sam pointed out, giving Crowley a _look_.

"And big surprise, not just colluding with an angel, but with the freaking _Winchesters_ again!" a demon called out.

"Am I speaking into a void?" Crowley asked incredulously. "Set. Up. You. Me. _All_ of us."

" _He's_ got it!"

Crowley's minion had piped up, standing from his hiding spot and pointing an accusatory finger at Dean.

" _What_ do I got, discount Cumberbatch?!" Dean shouted in response, prompting Sam to sigh and rub his eyes.

"I saw it!" the minion insisted, bolstered by all the attention focused his way. "The Winchesters have the weapon!"

Crowley looked at the minion with such hate, his eyes briefly flashed red; various conversations - _debates_ \- began happening all over the sanctuary.

"I don't have a weapon!" Dean shouted. After a second thought, he added, "Well, I _do_ , but not for you!"

"Who's it for, then? To use on angels _and_ demons?" 

"This was a trap for _all_ of us?"

"Take out as many as you can, after you see how many of us can kill each other first?"

Sam grabbed a strap of the harness, pulled it out into the open. "Look!" he said. "It's just a flamethrower!"

Dean reached down, picked up the barrel, and clicked the ignition - then he frowned as he clicked again.

And again.

And _again_.

Nothing.

"It shot out holy fire before!"

" _No_ , it didn't!" Sam insisted.

"Some things never change, _demon_ ," an angel practically growled at Dean.

"NO!" Sam and Dean yelled in unison, but it didn't matter - the infighting had already resumed.

Crowley rolled his eyes and turned to the brothers. "Forget these idiots. I'll deal with them. _You two_ need to get up to that balcony."

"Part of me wants to see you get the tar beat out of you, no doubt, but ---" Dean began, but Crowley cut him off.

"Listen to me: they've got Jane up there."

.

* * *

.

"Okay, so - ready for the scoop, Calamity?"

"I hate that nickname," Jane reminded him through grit teeth, and leaning on Castiel aside, distaste for her ex was seemingly the only thing keeping her upright.

"Yeah, yeah, old habits," Jamie said, dismissing her statement. "Anyway. First truth: your illness doesn't exist."

"Ha," she scoffed.

"Andrew isn't even close to who you think he is. He actually has more in common with me, come to think of it. Well, me _now_. You haven't complimented my hair yet, by the way."

Jamie's thick hair, which had perpetually been overgrown due to his laziness regarding regular haircuts, was now styled within an inch of its life. Closely cropped on either side and long on top, it was smoothed back off his forehead. And he was also sporting an equally cropped beard, one that had _not_ been present when she'd seen him at the store.

"I noticed. Good to see you've finally embraced your sleazy side," said Jane. "New style, new haircut. But isn't growing a beard just a little too on the nose for this darkest timeline shtick?"

Jamie walked a few steps closer to her, grinning, pulling one hand from a pocket to briefly stroke his jaw. "Nah. Now, if I'd gone goatee, that would've been too much. Never go full Mary Sue."

Castiel responded to his change in proximity by gripping Jane tighter.

"Ease up, Castiel. You shouldn't be worried about me, really. I made this lifestyle change all for her." And, cocky attitude aside, Jamie sounded fairly sincere.

"Castiel?" Jane repeated.

"Ah. Yeah. Truth number two - your nursemaid here is an angel."

Jane shook her head in disbelief, saying, "You're on drugs. Or you've had a psychotic break. Or you've been brainwashed. Or ---"

"Cala --- er, Janey, honey, sugar-pie, do you remember coming up any stairs to get here? Before that, did you walk through a door?" Jane kept silent, and Jamie held a hand several feet above his head. "Did a strange looking fellow about yea high bust into your apartment? He was supposed to snag some of the magic juice or pills Andrew's been pumping into you, but I heard he scared the bejesus out of you. And that he licked you."

" _You_ sent that thing?"

Jamie nodded. "And when I found out what happened? I had that tongue cut out."

Jane's legs really did give out then, be it from her body's difficulties or a disturbed reaction, Castiel wasn't sure, but he managed to catch her before she hit the floor.

"For crying out loud, will you _just_ sit _down?_ " Jamie asked, clearly exasperated as he gestured to the front pew.

This time Castiel complied, helping Jane sit but keeping a protective arm around her shoulder. Jamie rolled his eyes, then resumed his leisurely leaning. Castiel glanced in the direction of the sanctuary when he thought he'd heard Dean's voice shouting. Jamie followed suit.

"Told ya so," he said smugly.

"Was that Dean?" Jane asked, her expression growing more and more troubled by the second.

"Yepper, but they're big boys, they'll survive. Which brings me to truth number three: your brothers are hunters."

"I know."

"Not bounties, babydoll. They hunt the supernatural." Jamie paused for a moment, then added, "Well, some of their quarry is probably better described as 'paranormal', but semantics, sha-mantics."

Jane stared down at the floor, deep in thought.

"Okay, one thing that's not different - I'm still _suuuuper_ impatient, Calamity. Give."

Jane looked back up at him, this time speaking softly and without a hint of contempt. "Jamie, why did you bring me here?"

Her once-lover-turned-captor seemed to soften in turn. "Because I was unforgivably cruel to you. Because you didn't deserve it. Because I can't fix what I did. Because I can fix what's being done to you now."

It was the kindest voice Castiel had heard out of Jamie since their entire nightmare had begun, and watched as he gazed at Jane with nothing but tenderness, capping off his answer with one final statement.

"And, because - I still love you."

"We don't hold the people we love hostage," Jane responded firmly. "Let us go."

At that, Jamie stiffened, and again he kept it simple. " _No_." He pushed himself away from the pillar and motioned into the darkness.

Castiel glanced over his shoulder. Two humans were coming into the light. They wore surgical scrubs, caps and masks, one carrying a cooler, the other a large bag. The puzzling distraction caused him to miss that Jamie had taken the opportunity to quickly bend down and grab one of Jane's wrists.

"Stop it!" Jane exclaimed, trying to pull away, and the exertion launched her into a coughing fit.

"Go on," Jamie said over their heads, and the next thing Castiel knew, the burlier of the group who'd been guarding the doorway planted his hands on the angel's shoulders. And  _hard_.

While Castiel remained - for whatever reason - unable to transport from the scene, he still had his strength. He wrenched away, turning to the side and hitting the demon forcefully in the chest. Flying backwards, the behemoth broke a pew in two as he landed.

_"HEY!"_ Jamie snapped, his eyes flipping black. "I said play nice."

Seeing this, Jane gulped a mouthful of air in shock, beginning to cough even harder.

"Let me help her, please, then do whatever you want with me," Castiel said.

Jamie stared at him for a moment, but did release Jane's wrist. Standing again, crossing his arms, he walked over to the railing. Looking out over the now very raucous fighting happening in the sanctuary, he only barely turned his head as he responded. "Whatever. Consider it your last request, though I wouldn't be wasting mine on that."

"What is h-he t-talking about?" Jane managed to choke out, and more than a little frantically. "Cas, what are they g-gonna ---"

"You're not to worry about me," Castiel interrupted gently. He stole a glance to make sure Jamie was truly distracted with the fighting, and then sneakily reached into the pocket of his trench, which Jane still wore. "I don't think Andrew's bad," he went on, looking right into her eyes. "I now believe he's been trying to make you stronger. And your brothers are not bad, either. Nor am I."

Jane was looking at him intently, choking back coughs and growing tearful. "I kn-know," she croaked.

Castiel gripped all four syringes tightly in one fist, quickly removing all the caps with the other hand while still holding her desperate gaze. "And I beg of you - please forgive me for this." He stabbed her with the syringes, all at once, right into the top of one of her thighs, pushing the needles as far into the muscle as he could, then slamming the plungers down, injecting every drop.

Jane yelped in pain and surprise, causing Jamie to whip his head back around. Castiel pulled the syringes out and, with a fierce glare at Jamie, crushed them, needles and all, into a fine powder which he let drift to the floor.

"Get him out of here," Jamie snarled, snatching Jane forcefully off of the pew.

"No! Stop it!" she cried in between coughs, watching as the rest of the demons pounced on Castiel, dragging him away, punching him, but he didn't fight back.

"I'll go willingly if you promise not to hurt her!" he called over to Jamie.

"Whatever," Jamie said again. A sneer curled his lips as he tilted his chin towards the door, and his demons resumed their removal of the angel. Then he looked to the two humans in surgical garb, issuing one last order. "Make it fast."

They nodded in response, following the others down the stairs, leaving the balcony vacant except for Jane and Jamie.

Jane was woozy now, swaying to-and-fro as the medication began to make its way through her body. "Oh god," she mumbled.

"'Fraid he's not here, dollface..."

Jamie pulled her closer, whispering into her ear.

"...it's just you and me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	8. The Chapel Incident (Part Three)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation at the chapel escalates; the Winchesters' current enemy makes his intentions known; the lives of Castiel and Jane arrive at tipping points

* * *

   
_"Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years  
to understand that this, too, was a gift." - Mary Oliver: poet, _ _The Uses of Sorrow_

* * *

9:12 P.M.

The arguments in the chapel had now grown into full-blown fist fights and shoving matches amongst several groups of angels and demons.

"Call," Dean said to Sam, who pulled his phone out once more. He couldn't believe it was only just after nine - it felt like they'd been at the chapel for days.

Sam frowned, telling Dean, "No service."

"But you've got power?" Dean asked, and as soon as he did, the phone screen went black.

"Huh. Well, not anymore."

Crowley surveyed the crowd while he filled the brothers in on the whole of their situation. "If you were thinking of calling Cas, think again - it's not just your sister, they've got him, too."

Sam gaped at the demon's apparent slip of the tongue regarding his knowledge of Jane's true identity, asking, " _What_ did you say?"

"The cat's out of the bag, Moosey. Shall we perhaps opt to discuss it later?"

"Who are they?" Dean demanded, snatching Crowley by his lapels.

Crowley glared, grabbing Dean's wrists and removing his hands with a swift jerk, saying, " _Not_. _Mine_. Like I told Cas, never seen this lot before. Not of this kind. At least, not this many."

"How the hell are there demons you don't recognize? I get you may not recognize the packaging, but ---"

"You misunderstand: I'm saying, they are real deal demons - full bodied. No going to hell, carefully re-crafting their souls. No smoking out, no jumping from one host to the next. Someone's taken a page from Lucifer's cookbook, making 'em fresh to order, like Cain, or ---"

"Like me," Dean cut in.

"No, not like you, like you _were_ ," Sam corrected him.

"They take orders from a smart-mouthed hipster dipstick," Crowley went on. "Said he purposefully lured us all here; the way he spoke, it was meant as a distraction. They were going to break into the bunker to get Jane, but our favorite winged idiot brought her with him."

"Why is he even _here?_ " Dean growled, getting back in Crowley's face.

"I don't _know_ ," Crowley lied, inching his face closer to Dean's.

Sam reached up and pulled them apart, and not that either had to, but they let him. "So why didn't Cas just ---" Sam began to ask, but Crowley cut him off.

"We can't. Something's keeping us here, else I'd be grabbing hold of my imbeciles, toss them one by one somewhere over the Pacific, leave the angels to you two."

All three turned their heads from each other as they heard the tell-tale swish of an angel blade being unsheathed nearby. The angels were upping the ante. And apparently, the demons fortunate to have their own angel blades were thinking the same.

"How do we know you weren't conspiring with those thugs?" one of Crowley's demons was saying, having cornered an angel against the wall to the left of them. She was holding her blade just under his chin, her eyes flipping to black.

"Because, like you, they're bottom-feeding _demons_ ," was the angel's scathing reply, whipping out his own blade quickly and stabbing her right in the gut.

She cried out, grabbed the wound, and stumbled backwards against a pew - but nothing else happened. Looking down, she pulled her hand away slowly. They all watched as she observed the blood on her palm, then raised her eyes to the angel again.  "Looks like the food chain's getting a make-over."

The angel was stunned, and she took advantage of it, leaping forward and shoving her blade into his chest.

And once more - nothing happened.

"Our little confinement issues have officially reached a new level," Crowley commented, as Dean and Sam shared a concerned look.

Just then, two lines of the foreign demons emerged from either transept, all holding three and four angel blades each, the candlelight glinting off the metal, making them shine. The various pairs and trios to the back of the sanctuary halted their fighting, curious. Without a word, the uniformed and bespectacled newcomers bent down, sliding the blades out into the open area. After a glance at each other, demons and angels alike then pounced on the blades - the demons trying to take the weapons, and the angels trying to prevent it.

"Things are about to get real interesting," the nearby wounded demon said nastily to her angelic counterpart as they grappled.

"I knew you must have been in bed with them," the angel shot back, readying his blade for another go.

"No, but the night ain't over yet."

"They're gonna tear each other apart," Dean said, his tone grave.

"We have to get upstairs," Sam said, just as Dean's prediction came true - the fight now evened up to a degree, the entire sanctuary erupted into battle.

"See if you can follow them," Dean said to Sam, pointing in the direction of the new demons as they receded back into the transepts with one hand, and pulling out a demon blade with the other. "I'm headed to the balcony."

Sam nodded. Dean took off up the aisle, promptly getting involved in a fight. He pushed a demon away, then slugged an angel, knocking them to the floor, immediately turning and stabbing the demon, who had rebounded from the shove and come barreling back for more. Though they anticipated Dean could hold his own, Sam and Crowley were both admittedly astonished he'd been able to launch a demon that far and lay an angel out with one punch.

"They're weakened," Sam said to Crowley, who had pulled out his own blade. Sam had glanced over, but did a double take as Crowley used the edge of the blade to slice open the tip of one of his index fingers.

"But not enough, which means you won't get far," Crowley replied, dropping his blade at his feet, then reaching up and grabbing Sam by the jaw - and _fiercely_.

"What are you ---"

Before he could react, Crowley had forced his mouth to stay open and rubbed his cut finger along the top gums. Sam could taste blood dripping onto his tongue. He briefly gagged as Crowley removed his grip.

Crowley pressed his thumb against the cut, and it healed immediately. He took note of that, a slightly pleased look coming over his face. He then turned an intensely focused gaze over the fray. Without looking at Sam, the demon spoke two last words.

"Now _go_."

Sam did not argue. Crowley was right - he'd likely need the extra bump of strength. He shuddered a bit as he felt his muscles start to tingle in a not-entirely-unwelcome way. Scanning the activity, Sam opted to go to the intact transept first. He took off, deftly skirting two demons who had an angel pinned to the floor, putting tiny nicks all over their face. Around and over a few pews, he kept next to the wall versus heading up the center aisle, the space now crowded out by too many thrown elbows and gut kicks.

Crowley squatted, grabbing his blade, keeping an eye trained on nearby scuffles, when he heard a familiar, mousy voice to his side.

"Sir?"

Crowley's second looked at his master warily from Dean and Sam's former hiding spot behind the pulpit, having somehow managed to sneak his way up unscathed.

"Come here," Crowley said, and his tone left no room for argument.

The minion came to his side.

"Sir, I'm sorry ---"

Crowley pulled the minion's phone from his back pocket, holding it out, still watching the sanctuary activity. "Trade you."

The minion shakily pulled out Crowley's phone, handing it to him after he'd taken back his own. Crowley put his phone in his pocket without a word. After another few moments of observation, satisfied no one was coming after him presently, he leveled his stare at the cowering minion.

"You're not angry, sir?"

"Being angry would require caring of some sort," Crowley replied in an eerily calm voice, taking a step forward, the minion stepping backward in kind.

The minion gulped.

"Have you noticed that neither your comrades nor the heavenly host are able to exit the premises?" asked Crowley.

"Y-yes, sir."

A few more steps, now backing him down off the elevation and into the nave.

"Meaning - we can be sliced to bits with these blades, gradually getting too weak to fight back, lingering in these rotting meat suits because, see, we're trapped. We can't just pop away, snuggle up for a slumber party back in my cozy hell-on-earth, can we?"

The minion stayed silent, continuing his backward walk as Crowley went on.

"Turns out we are both the weapon _and_ the containment, you disloyal scab."

The back of the minion's legs hit the seat of one of the front pews.

"Unfortunately for the rest, I've still got more strength than ten of them combined."

Now Crowley reached up, snatching a handful of hair on the top of the minion's head.

"And unfortunately for _you_ , I've no longer any need of your services."

With that, Crowley brought his blade up, slicing the minion's neck deeply all the way across. Releasing his hold, letting the body drop, it fell against the pew in a seated position. The nearly-decapitated head flopped forward, making the scene look like just your average sleepy church-goer, were it not for the blood pouring down, pooling on the seat and beginning to drip to the floor.

"I've been waiting a long time for a chance at you, Crowley."

Crowley wiped the bloody blade across his sleeve. Good thing he wore the lesser suit, after all. He turned his head to the angel who'd spoken, his eyes now a dark and deadly red.

"Then a chance, laddie, you'll get."

. 

* * *

.

"Jamie, please... I really don't... feel so great."

Jane spoke breathlessly, her respiration growing increasingly ragged.

"Shh, shh, you're going to be just peachy soon," Jamie said, rocking her back and forth, holding her tightly against him, her weakened arms pinned to her sides, legs almost dangling, heels just barely touching the floor. He spun her a few times as if they were dancing, ending in a position where the shoulder upon which Jane's head had fallen was closest to the balcony railing. She could hear the chaos below. She felt nauseated from the spins and claustrophobic in his grasp. "Look, see? No one's paying any attention, we've got all the time in the world. Well, not really, we _do_ need to speed this up a bit, but it sounded nice. I'm a nice guy."

Jane fought hard to lift her head up from his shoulder, to force her tired eyes open, make herself look at him. "You've... _please_... something's wrong... we... got to get... get me to Andrew."

Jamie's entire body stiffened and he suddenly released his hold on her - then as she swayed, he pulled back an arm, planting a fist squarely across her left cheek.

Jane let out an involuntary grunt, falling to the floor with a thump. Stunned, head throbbing, her vision had gone from cloudy to blurry. Her legs refused to obey her, and she tried to crawl away, her arms barely cooperating, only making progress in inches.

Jamie groaned dramatically, and said, "Why? _Why_ did you go and say his name? You _know_ that's a trigger for me. And this is my safe space, Jane. No fair. Now, come on. Uuuuup we go!" He squatted, turned her over, then hauled her up and clutched her tightly again, though this time he placed her against the support beam, pressing his body to hers so she'd stay upright. "I still have things to tell you," he said, his voice now soft as he ran a thumb over her lower lip.

Jane couldn't speak, her eyes still fluttering closed though she was desperately trying to keep them open. Her mind was spinning and her heart was racing. Waves of trembles washed over her, from head to toe.

"Stay awake now, got to pay attention," Jamie said firmly, tapping his palm against her face on the same side he'd punched her, eliciting a grimace. "I finally found my purpose. I have the greatest mentor. Everything he's promised me, it's all come true," Jamie continued excitedly. "He believes in me. He's put me in charge of lots of things, and I'm good at all of it. You'd be proud of me. And there's _so_ much more left to do - he wants you there for all of it. _I_ want you there for all of it."

Jane tried to adjust her position as well as she could - something was digging into her back. On either side of her spine, it felt swollen and sore. This was new; she was used to deep bone pain and nearly intolerable soreness, but her spine had never felt affected. Now all manner of scenario was running through her mind, up to and including pending paralysis. If Jamie noticed, he ignored it, as he almost giddily launched into telling her the story of how he met this mentor.

"I was at the dog park with Blue - you know how old she was, even when we first met. And she was just so..." He trailed off for a moment, genuinely looking sorrowful. "She was barely eating, she couldn't go up or down stairs any more. The only time she'd perk up was at the park - she couldn't run and play, but the sounds seemed to make her happy. And this man approached me, told me how beautiful he thought she was, how he knew I was taking good care of her even though he could tell she was dying."

A bit of energy - or maybe just anger - flew over Jane, and she managed to open her eyes and give him a _look_. "How compassionate of you," she commented flatly.

Jamie rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. You hate me because I didn't support you, I get it."

Now Jane rolled _her_ eyes as Jamie plowed ahead with his hard-wired lack of awareness.

"But he told me he could help Blue - and I was desperate because the vet wanted me to put her down. He said it was a folk remedy his family swore by, told me to think about it and gave me his card. After she had a real bad night, I called him, and he met me right away, gave me this stuff to put in her food, said it would give her a year of good health, make her happy again." Despite the blackened eyes, his whole face brightened. "And Jane, I swear to god, she was a different dog, like a puppy. Then a year to the day, Blue just went to sleep and never woke up. It was the most peaceful thing you could imagine."

His grip had loosened a bit, and Jane frowned, shifting, trying to get the middle of her back off of the beam. Jamie noticed this time and, not seeming to care about the discomfort on her face, tightened his grip on her upper arms once more.

"Listen!" he insisted. "Look at me!"

Jane begrudgingly obliged, begging, "Jamie, please, can you just ---"

"Then about five months later, Pop got sick."

Jane was genuinely sad to hear this; she had liked the elder James. He was always so soft-spoken and kind. He'd even emailed her to say he was sorry things didn't work out between her and his son. It would've destroyed him to know all the reasons why it didn't.

"They said if they'd caught it sooner... but you know what a mule he could be, never wanting to go to the doctor," Jamie continued. "They put him in hospice. And I knew from all the medical stuff you'd told me... I knew what that meant."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Jane said honestly, her voice not as weak, though she was still stifling the occasional cough and her chest felt tight.

"So I called the man again. Asked if maybe he had anything, you know, not for dogs. He wanted to talk in person, and he told me things you wouldn't believe. Hell, _I_ didn't believe it. But I just couldn't stop thinking about Blue. How that shouldn't have been possible. I took him to see Pop, and I don't know what he did, but one minute, Pop was dead ---"

"What? He'd _died?_ " Jane asked, confused, and assuming Jamie was confused as well.

Jamie nodded. "By the time we got there. And then all the sudden, Pop sat up. Not in any pain. Recognized me and everything."

"I don't ---"

Jamie was positively beaming with happiness now, squeezing her so hard, she knew she'd bruise. "Jane, _listen_! He told me that Pop would have five years. He'd be healthy and able to get around and do whatever he wanted, like Blue. And he did. Then just like before, he died in his sleep - five years _on the nose!_ "

Jane's spine felt like it was trying to crawl out, the pressure so intense that shooting pains were now going down her legs; however, pain meant feeling, and feeling meant there was a chance they'd move when she told them to. And all she wanted to do was rush down the stairs and find Dean and Sam. So she forced herself to tune back in to Jamie's story, waiting on her chance.

"I believed him now, and I wanted to know what _else_ he could do. I called to let him know that he was right about Pop. He took me on as his apprentice. And everything he's promised me, it's come true. The things he's shown me - you wouldn't believe me, you'll have to see. I can't _wait_ for you to see!"

"I don't understand what this has to do with me," Jane said, getting tearful. "Don't you care that I need help? _Please_ let me go."

"Helping you _is_ what this has to do with you - I'm going to save you from him, from all that bastard's putting you through." Jamie planted his palm in the middle of her chest, effortlessly pinning her to the beam with one hand, the other removing something she couldn't quite see from behind his back. Then he came in close again, his lips next to her ear, whispering.

"It will only hurt for a second."

. 

* * *

.

While Dean and Sam continued to get sidetracked by way of getting dragged into varying degrees of altercations, Castiel was being 0110100101101110011000110110111101110010011100100110010101100011011101000000110100001010

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[PROCESSING]

"7472616e736d697373696f6e206572726f72207265626f6f74696e6720617420736f75726365 200d0a."

[PROCESSING]

"422e452e542e542e59207472616e736d697474696e672070726f63656564."

.

* * *

.

**NOW**

Sorry about that. It looks like something got screwed up converting some of the files needed to compose this letter. We'll just make it work.

Let's see, where were you in the story?

Ah. Okay. Jamie, with Jane, on the balcony, with a knife...

Heh. My bad, I'm making it sound like we're playing Clue.

Oh wait, you hadn't gotten to the knife part.

Well, damn it. Sorry.

Again.

Your normal letter-writer will be back soon.

At least, I think.

Wait, I thought these were being hand-written, why ---

This is getting transcribed, too, isn't it?

Nevermind.

Just back it up to the balcony, would you?

. 

* * *

.

**THEN** **(...AGAIN)**

"...things he's shown me - you wouldn't believe me, you'll have to see. I can't  _wait_  for you to see!"

"I don't understand what this has to do with me," Jane said, getting irritable despite her best efforts at staying neutral. "And you need to let me go, I am _not_ playing around."

"I'm not playing, either. I _can't_ let you go. And this has _everything_ to do with you - I'm gonna be here for you now, how I wasn't - how I couldn't be - before. I'm going to save you from _him_ , from all that bastard's putting you through."

Jamie planted his palm in the middle of her chest, effortlessly pinning her to the beam with one hand, the other removing something she couldn't quite see from behind his back. Then he came in close again, his lips next to her ear, whispering. "It will only hurt for a second."

"STOP!"

Jane's shrill response echoed off the balcony walls - she'd actually surprised herself at how loud her own voice sounded.

Because Jamie had leaned in, her sudden exclamation in such close proximity caused him to jump. Though he kept her pinned, he backed away, keeping her literally at arm's length. He looked to the side, opening his mouth widely, then closing, repeating the action, seemingly trying to pop his ears. "I think you busted my eardrum," he finally said.

"Good!"

Jamie looked back at her with an expression somewhere between amusement and surprise.

A few choked-back coughs followed, but her face was set in a fierce frown. She didn't know if it was adrenaline or side effects from Castiel injecting all the medication at once, but she'd take the renewed drive, whatever the source.

"Excuse me?"

"Damn right, excuse you. I'm _done_."

"I don't --- you can't --- _what_?"

"It's this. This constant _drama_ with you. It's _exactly_ why we're not together. If there wasn't any drama, then you'd create it. And now, all this garbage ---"

_COUGH COUGH_

"--- about some con-man or magician, lord knows. And these clothes, and those contacts, and the trying-to-be-sexy-whispering, which is just plain _creepy_ \---"

_COUGH_

"--- by the way. Oh, and you _punched_ me. You ---"

_COUGH_

"--- punched someone who's terminally ill, you piece of sh ---"

"Enough!"

The shock had left Jamie, now returning to a colder demeanor, punctuating his command by pushing her harder against the support beam.

Jane, however, had gone from scared to confused to angry, and was well on her way to furious. If he was banking on making her fall apart in fear, thinking that she would go down easily, he had miscalculated. Big time. "Cas called you a demon. Is this some wannabe cult, a ritual human sacrifice thing? Are _your_ friends down there killing _my_ friend right now?"

"I'm not --- You've got it all wrong. This isn't _anything_ like that." His tone was stern and annoyed, but he was still talking.

And now that her coughing seemed to have faded for the time being, Jane's goal was to keep it that way.

"Demon... I guess that's what I am, though," he continued, giving a half-shrug like it was no big deal.

Jane shook her head in disbelief. "What the hell _happened_ to you?"

"I got stronger. How do you think I'm doing this?" he answered, glancing down the arm that was trapping her.

"Uh... knocking on heaven's door over here. That kinda makes with the weakness on my part. Trust me, if I could knock you clean over this railing, best believe I would."

Jamie chuckled. "I don't doubt it, Calamity. You'd actually make a pretty good demon yourself."

"No."

"No, the demon thing? I was just playing."

"No," she repeated.

"No... no, what?"

"That was a complete sentence."

"Humor me."

"Ah, how's about - No, I'm not playing your games anymore?"

Jamie sighed, rolling his eyes, muttering, "Here we go."

"Or maybe - No, if you think I'm not calling the cops and pressing charges, you're banana-pants-psycho?"

"I genuinely thought this would go smoother," Jamie said, glancing to somewhere on the floor, not directing the comment to her but to himself.

"Also - No, I'm not gonna keep my brothers from ripping you a new ---"

Jane stopped when his head turned back to her and she saw it. The darkness had disappeared, his normal eyes returned. She found herself unable to say anything, _do_ anything but stare.

"Not contacts," he commented lightly, gesturing to his eyes with his free hand.

Only that hand wasn't empty.

And as Jane studied the odd-looking knife, she felt the beginnings of nervousness coming back. Up until that moment, her mind had been trying to protect her - of _course_ she was still hallucinating. True, Cas had told her she wasn't imagining the creatures, but he could've been wrong. And sure, she didn't exactly _remember_ how they got upstairs, but she could have passed out or had a small seizure.

_Denial - it's a hell of a drug._

"You said..." Jane trailed off, raising her gaze from the knife and back to his face before continuing. "You said it would only hurt for a little while. Tell me what that means. You tell me, right now."

Jamie actually looked hesitant to answer.

"Tell. Me. Right. Now."

"Everything he's told me has been true," Jamie said, echoing himself from earlier.

"What are you going to do to me?" Jane asked, her voice low but involuntarily shaky.

He stepped near her again, but not up against her any longer, just standing close. Several moments passed as he seemed to be memorizing every aspect of her face before he answered. "To get better, to fix what An --- what that son of a bitch has done to you, you have to die."

Jane closed her eyes briefly, inhaling and then exhaling slowly, trying to stave off a panic attack.

And he waited. None of his typical impatience to be found, none of the pushing and the rushing and demanding he'd done towards the end of their relationship, or even earlier that night. This wasn't new to her - he was quite adept at flipping his own switch, always _had_ been, especially when it came to getting what he wanted. So she forced herself to speak as carefully as possible, wondering when - not _if_ \- he'd turn.

"I'm _already_ dying. _Milk's_ got a longer shelf life."

"It has to be now."

Jane shook her head, saying, "There's all these witnesses - Jamie, you'll go to prison. For the rest of your life. I won't believe you'd let someone talk you into murder - that's not you."

"That's why I had to change. I couldn't have done this before."

"You don't have to do it at _all_."

"Yes, I _do_. Because to save you, it's not... it's not like giving a dog or an old man a little more time. To _really_ save you, let you have the long life you deserve, he says it needs a shock to the system, a big trauma to shake things up - _that's_ what will set everything in motion."

Jane stared, rendered speechless. He was a thousand percent serious. She knew him well, and all the outer make-overs in the world couldn't change that fact. He believed what he was saying, tips to toes. And the belief was what scared her most of all. But her legs were starting to feel strong again, the feeling now returning to her arms, even though her back was still aching with pressure. If she could make him laugh, or piss him off, get him chuckling enough or angry enough to make a mistake, even if she couldn't run fast enough or punch back hard enough to escape, maybe she could buy some time, have a better chance that Dean or Sam or Castiel, _anyone_ , could get to her.

Could _save_ her. Kill him. Didn't much matter at that point.

Time to punt.

Jane raised her eyebrows, saying, "I am aghast. I'm _several_ ghasts, 'cause Jamie! Come _on!_ That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard, and yeah, you're an ass, but you're not dumb."

A fraction of a smile came to his lips, so she continued.

"Is there a how-to handbook on mythological tropes laying around up here somewhere? I'm supposed to be some phoenix rising from the ashes? That's insane, and you know it!"

Despite the situation, Jamie did ultimately find himself grinning at her words. She had always been able to cheer him up. Til she got so sick.

Til Andrew came along.

He stepped in close now, touching his forehead to hers. "Man, I've missed that mouth," he said softly.

Shutting his eyes, tilting his head, leaning in and capturing her mouth with his own, he began to kiss her as much as her closed lips would allow. Jane did not shut her eyes, nor did she kiss him back, and the reality of her situation suddenly hit home. He was going to kill her. He was going to kill Castiel. He was going to kill Dean. He was going to kill Sam.

New play: hail Mary.

"We can just leave," Jane whispered around his kisses, trying her hardest to feign affection. Her arms were cooperating again, so she brought her hands up, stroking his neck and the sides of his face gently. "We can start over. We can walk outta here right now. I know I've been mad, but I loved you so, _so_ much, and I know I can fall in love with you again. All we need to do is ---"

Jane gasped, her eyes going wide.

. 

* * *

.

While Dean and Sam continued to be sidetracked by way of getting dragged into varying degrees of altercations, Castiel was being pulled along to destination unknown. He was resisting, but they were exceptionally strong - or else, whatever was preventing his typical means of transportation was also weakening him. And what he saw in the sanctuary confirmed the latter.

After they'd hit the main floor, Castiel was momentarily taken aback by the degree of the fighting - and the surprising lack of bodies. Many of the demons and angels were sporting fairly severe gashes and puncture wounds, some limping or with dangling limbs, but still they fought. As he was being shoved towards the side with the crumbled transept, Castiel craned his neck up and saw Jamie standing close to Jane.

And he saw just the faintest glint of light off of the blade Jamie held behind his back.

Struggling again with his captors, Castiel yelled up at the balcony. " _I told you I'd go as long as you wouldn't hurt her!_ "

"We need to hurry this up," came a voice from behind one of the surgical masks.

"We have to make our flight," said the other.

The upgraded demons, ever silent, were now practically lifting him off the floor as they moved at a quicker pace. Looking to the side, Castiel scanned the crowd for Dean or Sam - and he spotted Sam at a distance, headed to the opposite transept. Dean was closer to him at this point, having almost worked his way to the back of the chapel.

"Dean!" he called out.

One of the demons paused, loosening his grasp - and the punch that landed was so hard, Castiel actually got dizzy from the blow, though he did keep trying to pull away. They took him through a doorway, leading to a hall off of the wrecked transept that ran along the side of the chapel, the beginning of which was also in need of repair, but as they went further, the damage lessened. The next thing he knew, they were going through another doorway and emerging at the front of the chapel, near the elevation at the end of the sanctuary. The humans - surgeons? - walked ahead, setting down their bag and cooler behind the large wooden table in the semi-circular alcove.

"This will do."

"Get that jacket off."

The demons complied, then slammed Castiel down onto the table.

"What is happening?" he asked, though he knew it wasn't likely he'd get an answer.

"Hold him steady."

Castiel fought as hard as he could against them, but it was to no avail. He cried out when, after the demons had him pinned, the surgeons finished the job with metal stakes. One just below each shoulder in his upper arms, and one in either leg, right above his knees.

"Keep the head like this."

His head was wrenched to the side, facing out to the sanctuary. No one seemed to have heard his scream. They were all too busy screaming at each other. A demon kept his hand firmly against Castiel's head, and his neck was pierced, though not like a stab - something small was being slid inside of him, not terribly far under the skin, but extending down what felt like the entire length of his neck.

Now something cold - were they putting something else in? There was an odd taste in his mouth. While he did not feel any weaker than he already was, he was alarmed to discover that he could barely move. It wasn't because of the stakes, nor was it due to being held down - the demons had let go, and from his vantage point, he could see all of them exit back the way they'd come.

No, this was different. It was no longer a matter of being simply overpowered. And after another moment, it occurred to him that he was completely paralyzed. One of the surgeons twisted Castiel's head back to a straightened position.

"Did you use it all?"

The other surgeon's voice had come from somewhere off to the side, out of his line of sight.

The one holding his head steady look over and nod before looking down at him, asking, "Can you move?"

Castiel tried to open his mouth, tried to make a sound, but failed to do either.

"We're ready."

If you were to ask Castiel what happened next, in what order, how they went about doing what they did, he is - understandably - hesitant to speak on the topic. Perhaps his mind simply won't let him remember it in too much detail. Not all walls in the memory are created by others, after all.

He does remember they seemed to have difficulty retrieving his left eye for whatever reason, but the right was obtained easily. He remembers the Y-incision as not being the most painful thing he'd ever felt, though the rib spreader was a unique experience. And, of course, while there are plenty of nerve endings internally, it's not the same sort of pain as bruised skin or broken bones. It's denser, wider, deeper somehow.

He thought he heard sawing and snapping at some point, but he'll tell you it was mostly the pulling and the tugging he can recall. Since his head had fallen back to the side at some point, Castiel chose to focus his remaining blurry eye as well as he could on what was happening in the sanctuary. He no longer had any idea where Sam and Dean were; he could only hope they were on their way to Jane.

. 

* * *

.

It burned like fire.

Jane looked down, already woozy, feeling her body drift to the left. She almost lost her balance and ended up leaning against the railing, just beside the beam. The blade Jamie had held was inside of her, all the way to the hilt, shoved up at an angle. The hilt was modest, but it was halted by her sternum. And the blade itself was so long, she suspected it must have hit near, if not _into_ , her heart.

Jane mentally cursed her knowledge of anatomy and physiology; she knew exactly the cascade of actions that would occur. The immense warmth, followed by intense aching told her he'd likely cut her abdominal aorta - the heat and the fullness was no doubt from the spaces between organs filling with her blood, her heart pumping it out furiously due to the adrenaline. Because it couldn't find its way back into her circulation due to the loss of an important route from her failing heart, the blood that wasn't oozing from the wound simply had nowhere else to go.

She was losing consciousness - oxygen hitches a ride on blood, after all, and what she had left was desperately trying to get to her brain. Bright red blood rapidly soaked through her shirt and cardigan, working its way to the top of her skirt. Jane wobbled a step or two forward, she didn't know why, the only thing in that direction her was her murderer.

And she managed to glance up one last time. Jamie seemed at ease, casually looking at his watch. Behind him, multiple blurry figures were appearing one by one. Then she saw panic suddenly hit his face as she felt herself stumble backwards, finally passing out, her limp and dying body pitching right over the railing.

. 

* * *

.

9:20 P.M.

Sam had made it to the transept, only to find more fights in progress. He spotted only one of the newer demons to the back, observing as he was confronted, snapping the head of the person who'd approached so fast it almost spun completely around. And then the demon didn't merely disappear - to Sam's surprise, he just... faded and vanished.

" _SAM!_ "

He turned to his right, hearing Dean call his name, only to see his brother get knocked into the vestibule by a distracted angel and demon, each wounded but still going strong.

Dean got pushed to the side, hitting the wall, then watched as the demon got thrown into the now doorless entry. And to both his and the angel's surprise, the demon ricocheted off of something unseen, slamming his head into the frame of the stairwell entrance. Disoriented, unable to stay upright, he collapsed to the ground. Apparently uninterested and still itching for a fight, the angel immediately left for the sanctuary to seek out more action.

"What is it?"

Sam had arrived and noted the odd look on Dean's face.

"The exit's blocked, there's some kind of field or barrier - even if these jerks didn't have such a hard on for fighting, they can't walk out. Watch this." Dean hauled the still-dizzy demon from the floor and threw him into the empty doorframe - again, a forceful bounce, and the demon once more hit the wall, then the floor, out for good this time.

"What the hell?"

"We'll worry about it later - what's the sit-rep on those Agent Smiths?"

" _They_ don't seem to have a problem popping around, I watched one of them disappear. Like, molecule-by-molecule-faded-away disappear."

Dean frowned at that revelation, but then refocused, glancing at the stairway, then back to Sam. "Let's roll."

But when they tried to pass, only their hands got through as they reached for the railings on either side of the stairs. There was an intense pop, like static electricity times ten. While it didn't toss them away, Dean felt his arm tingle up to his elbow.

Sam winced, experiencing the same. "What is that? Feels like getting tased or something."

Dean reached down, grabbing the limp arm of the nearby unconscious demon and throwing it towards the stairwell - not even fingers broke through. "Screw this," he announced. Backing up a bit, he lunged at the doorway. He grit his teeth and dug in. The top half of his body only partially made it through before he stumbled back. "Ah!" he grunted, then bent over and gripped his knees, recovering.

Out of breath, he glanced up at Sam, and saw they were thinking the same awful thing. They couldn't pass. Jane was on her own. But they didn't have to dwell on that long.

Sam had his back to the sanctuary when he heard a thud so loud, it startled him. Dean's horrified expression as he stood up straight sent chills through Sam's entire body. Slowly turning, he saw her. The ruckus around the body lying in a heap in the open area paused for only a split second before resuming. A pool of blood began to appear and spread out onto the floor.

And none of it registered fully for Sam til his eyes fell on green rain boots.

. 

* * *

.

Jamie gulped and inhaled a shaky breath, closing his eyes briefly as he heard her hit the floor. One of his demons came and stood beside him, so he quickly regrouped, asked, "Is he still getting the feed?"

The demon silently reached up to his glasses, giving one side of the frames a tap. A quick shimmer passed across both lenses, and the demon observed a pair of hands holding onto a tablet that was showing various angles of the activity of the night. Some of it was live, some from earlier, all sourced from the team's eyewear.

The demon tapped the frame again, then turned his head to Jamie and nodded.

"Good. And our associates are satisfied that the terms of our agreement have been met?"

A glance towards the alcove at the far end and back, followed by another singular nod.

"Excellent."

Jamie looked out over the fray, pulling out his phone which, unlike Sam's, was working just fine. Scrolling with his thumb, he found the icon he sought. It was returned to his pocket following a single click. "I've disengaged the agitator frequency. They aren't stopping anytime soon, but I'll keep the rest intact while I wait on..." He trailed off, then turned around to the rest of his crew and continued. "Go. Dispose of the creatures or send them back, whatever's most expedient. I'm staying behind to ensure it's done."

Curt nods as acknowledgement from each, then they all faded away.

Jamie walked over to the darker area of the balcony, where he would be hidden while still having a line of sight on Jane. He hoped his faith had not been misplaced. Either way, for the first time in his life, he was going to see something through - see _this_ through - to the end.

. 

* * *

.

More and more of the fights seemed to be moving closer to the floor, as wounds to muscles and ligaments coupled with hampered healing were finally taking their toll. Rolling around, punching and stabbing, reduced to wrestling, the demons and angels persisted, some of them likely wondering why it was exactly they were all so enraged. Even if they'd known of the full effects of the field around them, it was debatable as to whether the caveman side of the human brains they'd taken on would have had the wherewithal to stop, think, perhaps work on a solution together.

Due to the reduced number of standing bodies, Dean was able to take note of what was happening at the opposite end of the chapel, and realized Castiel was laid out on the table, two people hovered over him. They were working at something rapidly. And he wasn't moving.

And Sam was still staring at Jane.

"Hey," Dean said, looking to him.

No response.

"HEY!"

Dean moved to stand in front of Sam, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a forceful shake.

Sam blinked a few times, then spoke. "We need to check and see if ---"

"We'll get her, okay? We'll get her home. But we gotta help Cas right now, there's nothing we can do for her," Dean told him.

"What?" Sam asked, still in a bit of a daze, til he looked over Dean's head, his eyes widening when he saw Castiel.

They took off in unison, Dean pulling ahead of Sam as he leapt over a fallen angel, when Sam was suddenly tackled from the side by what felt like a steamroller, sending him and whatever had hit him to the floor, sliding on the wood and into the transept.

"Oof!" Sam exclaimed when he hit the floor, and immediately felt himself on the receiving end of a not-full-power, but still jarring, punch.

"We're finished with you and your brother, all you do is disrupt the balance," an angel spat angrily, punching him again.

But Sam was a glad for the punches, because they brought him back to being fully present. They also seemed to charge up Crowley's gift again. He chose to put Jane out of his mind for the moment.

Then he chose to wrap his hands around the angel's neck and squeeze until he felt the airway collapse under his grip.

. 

* * *

.

Rain had begun to fall, and Castiel was drifting in-and-out of consciousness, thinking silly things like - did he leave a window down in the car?

No, of course not, he hadn't rolled down the windows, it was too cold out, and that would have chilled Jane.

Jane. That's _right_ \- she had fallen. Had she been pushed? He didn't know, though he was positive he had seen it happen. And he fought to stay awake, almost wishing he hadn't grown numb to the pain so he'd stay alert, fight harder, get free, go help, try to heal her, _something_.

And while his sight was beyond blurry, Castiel saw movement. He was sure of it. Not the fights, it wasn't that - it was further back, just below the balcony.

Something dark was over Jane's body...

Wait, that wasn't it.

Something dark was _rising_ from Jane's body, pushing upwards, then back, jolting her, twisting her to either side. It was awkward and stilted, stretching, then flopping back and repeating the process as it grew larger.

A fight escalated just then, right near her - there were too many bodies and it obstructed his view. And one of the surgeons moved in front of him, further blocking his line of sight. Something was being done in his chest that suddenly made it harder for him to breathe.

The surgeon looked at his watch, then spoke to his counterpart.

"It's getting late, we need to get a move on."

 _Yes, move,_ he thought. _You have to move!_

Castiel wasn't certain if he was willing them out of his way, willing them out of the chapel, or perhaps just trying to will himself - futile, all.

But while he remained, held fast, the rest eventually did move. He wasn't sure how much time had passed. He wasn't sure of anything anymore.

 _No_.

No, Castiel was sure of one last thing. He knew he couldn't do it, so maybe he was just _pretending_ he was squinting his remaining eye into focus, maybe just to reassure himself he'd not imagined it.

Jane was gone.

. 

* * *

.

9:53 P.M.

Back in the transept, a weary Sam was beginning to push himself up from the floor. After rolling out from under his unconscious attacker, he'd successfully separated another pair for the time being, getting knocked down a few times for his trouble. Only now, the immediate area grew very quiet, the various scuffles suddenly stopped.

Sam frowned, held still, and glanced around.

Demon and angel alike were on bended knee, all slightly shifted in his direction, heads tilted down. Sam managed to catch the eye of one angel, shocked to notice he was shaking. The angel cut his eyes behind Sam in what seemed like a warning, then quickly lowered them again.

Edging around slowly, still on his knees, Sam just barely caught the sound of slow footsteps, of something dragging, something scraping, when green rain boots with froggy faces on the toes, spattered here and there with tacky blood, came into his line of sight and stopped directly in front of him. Something dark and heavy was casting a shadow behind them. It drug a line of blood with it across the floor, a slimy trail leading right to him.

Now it was Sam who was shaking as he squeezed his eyes closed, swallowed, willed himself to keep looking up, beyond the boots. Opening his eyes, he forced his gaze higher - over the ripped tights, the blood-soaked skirt, the protruding handle of a wedged blade. And, though it felt like it took hours, he managed to make it all the way to the top.

Her head was turned away from him at first, black veins mapping a path up her neck for Sam's eyes to follow. As her face began to come back in his direction, he thought it seemed like she was making mental note of every facet of her surroundings. The building, the objects, the angels, the demons and, finally, him.

"Jane?" he whispered.

Because it didn't matter that he was afraid, he had to know. If he was to die right there, right then, he had to know if it was her or if it was something else handing him his fate. For better or for worse, he had to know.

Her eyes were that deep blue edged in black, and now the darkness seemed to have extended. It trickled out in tiny branches, crawling under the surrounding skin, tightly interwoven spiderwebs that, from a distance, probably looked as if someone had blown a handful of kohl-and-Prussian dust in her eyes. Or perhaps like they'd been hollowed out completely.

Except.

That bit of sparkle along the edges was still there, what Sam considered a bit of _her_. She was looking directly at him now, no smile, no expression really at all, merely a quick appraisal of his face. Which made sense - Jane knew it well. And he suddenly wasn't afraid anymore.

So when she'd turned, taken several steps away, and then paused, extending her black-veined hand back to him...

Sam took it.

She laced her fingers in between his, gripping tightly, almost _too_ tightly, but her hand was warm. Jane was _never_ warm. As they meandered more and more into the main area, passing near the still-wet puddles of blood where she'd lain not so long ago, blades clattered to the ground as they were dropped, echos from thuds overlapping each other as more and more angel and demon knees hit the wooden floor. She would occasionally slow, then come to a brief stop, again as if she were taking inventory, head moving as she looked upon every single angel and demon lining their path.

As for Sam, he was trying to reconcile his mind and his sight, because he was having trouble making sense of what he was seeing.

This _mass_ that had erupted from her back - if he'd read about something like this, he'd forgotten it. Maybe because he'd discounted it. Or maybe he simply didn't remember because he was, admittedly, in a state of shock. Technically, he _had_ read about something like this, but not in the lore. It was from when he was a boy, before being a hunter was his reality. This was the stuff of fairy tales and comics and children's books, perhaps even the stuff of Jane's nightmares.

It had burst through her clothing and Castiel's trench, shredding it and her skin along the way, beginning below her shoulder blades. As she walked and the fabric shifted, he saw that the protrusions were actually two separate growths. Sam couldn't tell exactly how far down they went on her body; all the ripped fabric and blood was blocking a full view. He could somewhat make out what supported them - thin bones? Cartilage? Vanes of some sort? And they appeared to have something akin to joints along the slight crests at their tops, though it all presently hung lax, deflated of any volume, limply dragging along, damp and weighed down.

The trail they left gradually changed, Sam noticed, now beginning to leave wispy hash marks here and there. They were drying, he supposed, and he wanted to sneak a touch, but hesitated. He didn't want to hurt her, or take the chance it would anger her, though it would've likely been for naught; on the parts he could've reached, it still seemed to be gummy and clumped together.

Then out of nowhere, it hit him like a ton of bricks as he suddenly realized what they were made of, what he now suspected the strange growths actually _were_.

If they were anything but jet black where they'd emerged, Sam couldn't say, even when the brighter points of candlelight gave him a better look. As they descended, the color that was beginning to reveal itself seemed to be graduating from the black into a reddish-brown, though he still couldn't decide if it was the drying blood or the actual hue. Much of it still seemed downy, while the edges and the tips were long and stiff. They looked heavy, but if they affected her balance or her posture, there was no indication. She was walking purposefully, head high, shoulders back, not the first sign of weakness, of illness. And though she was keeping him close, and he felt no threat, he added that to the list of concerns compiling itself in the back of his mind, all of them adding up to the fact that this was Jane, but...

 _Not_.

As the fights stopped bit by bit, as the din lowered, as the chaotic movements receded, Sam took the opportunity to glance around for Dean, for Castiel - hell, even for Crowley. There remained a great deal of activity towards the front of the chapel, and he couldn't really make out many details. Couldn't hear anything but a mash-up of threats and groans.

But he sure heard the drill when it started up.

.

**_BANG_ **

.

Although the drill was right beside him, Castiel had not; the last weak beats of the heart in the body he'd grown to love had done its best, but was tired. The rushing blood sound in his ears was gone, replaced by singular beats, no longer rhythmic thuds. They were loud, like the bang of a cannon firing, and getting further and further apart.

.

**_BANG_ **

.

Sam had just lowered one foot onto the steps that went down into the main sanctuary area, the other foot still on the landing where she stood, when both of their heads jerked in unison towards the mechanical spinning sound.

And when he saw what had been done to Castiel, Sam felt like he was going to vomit. His legs suddenly felt a wobbly. Then his heart began to race when he heard Dean's deep voice howl above all the noise.

_"CAS!"_

Only a few pews and a handful of strides back from where he wanted to be, Dean looked like he was frantically trying to climb up and over the last of the still-upright angels and demons, not bothering trying to go through them, desperate to get to Castiel.

Crowley, to his credit, was giving as good as he got, stabbing and punching at whatever seemed to be coming after Dean. The surgeons, those masked villains, glanced over at the sound of Dean's scream, but then ignored it. One held Castiel's head steady, while the other had the power drill with the huge bit whirring at max speed poised over the angel's skull.

.

**_BANG_ **

.

It was then that Crowley sensed something odd, something happening in the air, like it suddenly got thicker. Maybe thinner. Something prickly.

He'd glanced around when the nearby candle flames, as well as those in the chandeliers, dimmed slightly. It was not from the gusts of wind nor the light rain sneaking through the caved-in roof and the windows short of panes. It was _not_ a natural occurrence.

As his gaze came down, that's when he saw her. She was standing statue-still, jaw tightening, chin slowly lowering. He followed her steely stare to the table, noting for the first time what was happening to make Dean so upset.

Crowley looked back to her, his eyes growing wide as he had a sudden realization.

The fray had now pushed them to the very front, and he knew he barely had the time to launch himself at Dean. Barely enough time to be thankful for the newer, younger, fitter form that permitted him to tackle the hunter to the ground, his comparable frame allowing him to cover Dean's body with his own. Only the barest of moments to be thankful those maniacs had anchored Castiel to that table.

Just barely.

.

**_BANG... BANG..._**

.

Quick for Crowley, muddled for Castiel, a whirlwind for Dean, and like slow motion for Sam.

She had come down a step, then with her left leg she skipped the rest and planted her foot onto the sanctuary floor, moving into a crouched position, leaving the other foot behind.

Sam shortly understood the reason for the created space. She yanked the hand she still gripped at a downward angle so hard, it caused him to stumble awkwardly down the last few steps. She had pulled him over and across her, into the gap, releasing his left hand almost as soon as she'd done so, and he caught himself with it, his forehead almost smacking into her bent knee.

Only it wouldn't have - she'd moved her hands to grab him firmly around both sides of his head, covering both of his ears completely. Sam reflexively brought his hands up to cover hers. She seemed to be arching over him, protecting him, not only with her hands but by creating a makeshift shelter for him out of herself.

Before his sense of hearing was totally blocked by her grip, he heard what sounded like wet fabric stretching...

...or maybe like the creak of a hinge in need of oil...

...or like joints popping...

...or maybe it was all three.

.

**_BANG... BANG..._**

.

For a fraction of a second, Dean had been poised to start elbowing Crowley, who had not-so-gently pinned him to the floor beside a pew, his head and torso landing out in the aisle. He couldn't see Castiel any longer, now facing the opposite direction. And he didn't truly have time to register seeing Sam straight ahead of him, tripping down the steps, before his eyes focused on who was behind his brother.

 _Jane_.

Dean felt his lips form her name, though if he made any sound, no one heard it, not even himself. He didn't try again - his jaw had dropped. Something big and dark was rising up behind Sam and Jane, and as it took shape, he just knew.

His mind immediately zipped through the many times he'd seen it before. In shadows and ashes. Never in reach-out-and-touch-it form.

But he understood why Crowley had forced him to take cover. He intuitively understood what was coming. Dean pulled his chin to his chest, bracing himself, arms wrapping around his head, eyes slamming shut.

.

_**BANG... BANG**..._

_._

Crowley kept his eyes open.

The demon couldn't claim an intimate, personal knowledge of any sacred tomes, though he did consider himself well-read. He imagined Lord Byron would have had something to say about what was playing out in the chapel. Certainly in better words than he himself could muster.

No, Crowley had never been religious, even when human, but he knew for certain one of the texts had something appropriate for the occasion. If memory served, it was in Revelation, where much of the crazy had gone to roost, and that was saying a lot. But he'd always felt sure there was truth behind at least some of it.

What was it?

How did it go?

.

**_BANG... BANG... BANG..._ **

.

Amongst the last things Castiel could recall hearing was the church bell's frantic clanging... wasn't it? Then it occurred to him that it was probably his heart that had suddenly begun pounding so quickly, apparently rallying for one last go. It was so, _so_ very loud.

But he was suddenly aware of the _other_ sounds.

They were more intense, with more resonance, not as sharp as dying heartbeats. And then there was the building, with its yawning and groaning. The crackling as the glass of the windows strained.

And now he heard the drill, though he was all out of caring at that point. They could bring it on. His skull had seen worse.

Castiel had gotten used to lying still, so much so that while the paralyzation seemed to be dwindling, he just couldn't make himself move. No part of his body seemed able to obey his mind's commands. Perhaps he just didn't have enough will.

The smell of his blood - he'd gotten used to that, too, so when the distinct odor of heat, of _fire_ , flooded his nostrils, he made himself open his eye. The last bit of his blurred sight noted the flames of the candles around him and in the chandeliers glow so brightly they blended together. Then just as suddenly, they were fading.

 _He_ was fading.

.

**_BANG... BANG... BANG..._ **

.

Dean felt pressure building in his head, like when he'd be forced to fly and forgotten to chew gum. Then it started to feel like that day, that day he'd come back the first time. And his mind called up the still-sharp memory of that crappy gas station.

The ringing in his ears, the jarring in his bones, the rumbles in his gut.

The rumbles in the _room_ , right when the whole place seemed to implode around him.

.

**_BANG... BANG... BANG..._ **

.

Crowley remembered now - it was in Revelation nine, he was fairly certain.

But how did it _go?_

It was so annoying, feeling so scatterbrained.

Disoriented.

Not in control.

.

**_BANG... BANG... BANG... BANG..._ **

.

The mass moved up and behind her, gathering itself into a long, vertical line.

Any fights that were still happening ground to an abrupt halt as the angels and demons picked up on the fact that something was amiss.

The masked men, still bent over Castiel, didn't seem to notice a thing.

.

**_BANG... BANG... BANG... BANG..._ **

.

Jamie had noticed everything.

His eyes had gone wide when he'd come out of the shadows and gripped the balcony rail so hard his hands hurt. He'd watched as Jane seemed to rise from the dead. One arm had moved, then the other, then she'd pressed her hands against the floor, extended her legs like she was about to do push-ups.

And push up she had, in one powerful movement, sailed up and back, came to a halt at precisely the right moment, erect on solidly planted feet. He had quickly backed into the shadows when she'd slowly raised her head up towards the balcony. He'd had the feeling those dark eyes saw him anyway, because it felt like they cut right through him.

Yet she'd turned and walked away.

Now she seemed poised to lay waste to anything and everything, so he found himself instinctively dropping down, bracing himself, putting his back against the support beam, hoping it was strong enough, since it felt like _he_ had no strength left at all.

.

**_BANG... BANG... BANG... BANG... BANG..._ **

.

The entire building now sounded like it was moaning, angry that the wind was making the church bell clang furiously. Those beings with preternatural senses seemed to _lack_ any sense to take cover. They were mesmerized, watching the flames in the candles arching in the direction of the entryway, then gaping as the chandeliers began to tilt the same way.

More still were looking to the intact windows on the upper half of the chapel. They were watching the glass warp inwards at a physics-defying curve, their exceptional hearing picking up on the tiny stress cracks and pings. Others were moving - or crawling - out of the way as several pews near the front made scraping noises, pulled against the floor by forces unseen.

.

_**BANG... BANG... BANG...BANG BANG BANGBANGBANG** _

.

.

.

Later, everyone would agree on one moment - the complete silence which hung in the air for one precious second before it happened.

Crowley watched the thing that looked like the Winchester sister duck its head, covering Sam even more, the dark mass like an obelisk behind them, then with a quick whip, slicing itself in two, extending out to either side, the span leaving him awed.

As he ducked his own head, he just could've kicked himself - of course he remembered how it went.

.

_"And the sound of their wings was like the thundering of many horses and chariots rushing into battle..."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	9. The Chapel Incident (Part Four)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night at the chapel comes to a close with more than one surprise... and while some questions are answered, as it goes with the lives of the Winchester brothers, more questions arise to take their places.

* * *

   
_"They have scanned and searched for vital signs, but I'm hardly a pulse, barely a breath,  
a thread, a trace, a past, a waste." - Simon Armitage: poet, _ _Black Roses_

* * *

 .

To those without covered ears, it sounded like the air had been split, the sound barrier not just broken but shattered, a granddaddy of a sonic boom. Demons and angels, standing and kneeling alike, were launched in all directions, stopped only by the walls, where their bodies left dents and cracks. The surgeons flew backwards as well, one hitting the wall of the alcove, the other sailing out one of the windows and hitting the ground, plowing a human-shaped line and uprooting the damp grass.

The heavy table on which Castiel was pinned lurched, the end with his feet pushed towards the back wall, the end with his head whipping around and coming out of the alcove. It didn't travel far, just down the small set of steps to the lower elevation, stopped by the overturned pulpit. As Crowley had hoped, the angel's body held fast.

And the demon found himself being thankful for his former right-hand's corpse, as it had shielded him - and Dean - from the initial strike. The pew his body fell upon had gone airborne and flipped, landing almost like a tent upon their backs. They had slid along the floor quickly, the velocity stopped only by the stairs leading up to the first elevation.

The glass in the windows no longer warped - it no longer _existed_ , having shattered with such force that while much sailed out over the hill on which the chapel rested, a healthy amount still shot back into the chapel, raining down on everyone. The pews were no longer arranged in rows, not even the ones in the balcony, knocking into each other as they scattered. Where the wind had not taken away the candles' flames, this certainly did, and the entire chapel was plunged into darkness.

Everyone breathed heavily. Some starting weeping. The surgeon who'd hit the wall was whimpering, trying to figure out how to support the arm that took the brunt of the hit given his dropped and dislocated shoulder, the compound fracture to his forearm. It hung limp, now useless.

The wind had died down, only the bell's leftover momentum causing a pitiful clang. Then came dull echoes as all of the demons and angels took to their knees, most squeezing their eyes tightly shut, some - even a few demons - bringing hands up, clasping them in prayer. There were small creaks as Dean and Crowley shoved the pew aside, followed by a faint series of pings, shards of glass hitting the floor as the duo rose, gingerly shaking themselves off. Otherwise, the chapel was eerily quiet.

Sam felt her release him and stand. He looked up before he could stop himself, though it was dark and he didn't know what he expected to see. But see something, he did. Those tiny star-like dots, the ones Jane had explained away as a crystallized side effect, that he'd only seen when light had been available to reflect off of them - there they were. Except now, in the shadows, they'd taken on a slight glow, forming a ring along the edges like miniature headlights. And Sam could've sworn they were spreading, arranging themselves, some moving to cover the central portion of her eyes, evoking a more efficient version of the horrific beams that erupted from angels.

Voices came from the alcove. The surgeon thrown from the building had managed to stumble back, collapsing once he reached the window he'd gone through, then pulling himself up, his forearms resting on the empty sill. His partner was openly sobbing now.

"Get it together!" the one at the window commanded, and quite loudly. He brought fingers up to his ear, touching moisture, then observed them - bloodied.

"Hand me the cooler!"

"My arm!" was the wailed reply, equally loud. "My ears!"

"COME ON!"

With his good arm, he passed the cooler out the window and as soon as it was taken, his partner immediately began to wobble away.

" _Wait!_ "

The newly ditched surgeon turned quickly, stooping and grabbing the strap of the large duffel containing their supplies - he froze upon spotting the twin orbs of bluish light coming towards him.

She had begun to walk down the aisle, her boots pounding the floor with every step, locked into a menacing stride. As she moved, the scattered pillar candles flew back to their original positions as she passed, lighting themselves. The same held true for the tall candelabras, as they righted themselves in her wake, taper candles flying back into their holders, wicks springing to life.

The line of chandeliers over the aisle halted their swaying, one after the other as she passed directly under them, their candles re-assembling, flaming with a hiss. And while continuing on her direct path to the alcove, she raised a hand, snapping her fingers with a distinct _pop_ , the chandeliers over the open area re-igniting themselves in kind. A sharp head turn in the direction of the heavy table holding an unmoving Castiel, and it righted itself back to its original position.

The surgeon screamed in terror - and before she'd even gotten halfway to him, he dropped the duffel strap, throwing himself out the window, broken arm be damned.

It was only then she stopped her advance, the glow from her eyes dissipating. And, slowly turning in a circle, she surveyed the prostrate collective, the long tips of the powerful new appendages brushing aside pieces of broken pews and bits of glass. Whatever candles were left reassembled themselves and now the building was bright with an electric light.

Before her turn was completed and would leave her facing the front of the chapel again, Crowley eased to his knees, casting his eyes to the floor. Dean glanced down at him with a frown, briefly wondering what his - and _all_ \- the kneeling was about. Then he put aside his curiosity, taking in the resurrected Jane fully.

His eyes involuntarily focused on the massive feathered wings - son-of-a-bitch, _wings_ \- protruding from his sister's... from this _being's_... back. Though her posture was solid, not a bit of Jane's shakiness to be had, the wings occasionally ruffled themselves, like they were a totally separate entity from her, fluffing and settling to their desired status. Dean noted the same thing Sam had, more so now that less of their surface area was wet. The black exit points and undersides, the dark reddish-brown areas, the way the odd joints along her spine and their crests flexed slightly, as if they were stretching, a sort-of cool down after their workout.

Up in the balcony, it was Jamie who was shaky, easing up into a slight crouch, and immediately moving towards the doorway. As he weaved his way around the pew and glass disarray, his foot kicked something and it hop-skipped in the direction of the stairs. He winced, dropping into a squat.

She turned her head quickly, only for a split second, then resumed her observation of the sanctuary. Dean and Sam glanced to the balcony as well. They saw nothing.

Jamie opted to crawl the rest of the way to the stairs. And he saw what he had kicked - Jane's inhaler, that he'd tossed away earlier. Putting it in his pocket, he made sure he'd gone into the stairwell a bit before he stood and carefully made his way down to the vestibule. The still-passed-out demon laid against the belfry door, and Jamie mentally crossed his fingers for no noise as he nudged the demon away with his foot. Success. And luck remained on his side as he silently opened, then closed the door behind him.

Sam stood and began walking down the aisle. Dean was still blatantly staring at her, now taking in the eyes, the blade, the blackened veins. It was like she was some sort of combo of things he and Sam had encountered, raised to a triple-digit exponent. His mind was admittedly racing. Dean wanted to go stand by Sam, and in truth, Sam was thinking the same thing, but neither would have been able to pass her without coming very close. Thinking alike, they both eased nearer each other, stopping in front of her, one on either side.

She looked at them. No smile. No expression. No detectable emotion at all. And then, after a moment or two, she spoke. In a firm tone, not too soft but not too loud, it was a short sentence - but in that odd language that had come from Jane's lips during her trance-like state.

The brothers shared a _What do we do now?_ sort-of look, then turned their heads back to her, confusion written on both their faces.

Sam had barely begun to open his mouth to try and speak to her, when her eyes narrowed and she repeated the sentence with a tone clearly indicating she expected a response this time. Then, apparently not receiving one quickly enough, her eyes left theirs, now looking behind and then across the sanctuary, left to right. She bellowed out another short sentence, though it was a different string of words.

The crowd was visibly startled, but no one dared move or speak.

She repeated herself, even louder, sharper, and her voice echoed. Her hands clenched into fists. The wings tensed. So did Sam and Dean. Still, no one spoke.

No one, that is, except Crowley.

Keeping his head bent, he said something in Enochian, as it was the only element of her speech that he half-way recognized. It was an old form that he wasn't terribly familiar with, the equivalent of Middle English or, more accurately, something like Cumbric as compared to today's versions of English. But ever the cunning deal-maker, Crowley wanted to make himself of use to her, so he attempted to base a response on a few of the roots of the words she'd spoken.

Sam and Dean looked over to him, as did she. Seeming to relax - the wings easing down, the hands unclenching - she turned herself to face him. And she said several words, the intonation indicating a question.

Crowley's brows knit together as he thought; then his face relaxed as he haltingly replied, managing four or five words, how appropriate a response the brothers really couldn't tell, as Crowley's Enochian sounded off somehow and the language she spoke was so odd and foreign to their ears.

Now Dean spoke up, asking, "Can you understand her?"

Crowley raised a hand, tilted it back and forth, indicating _here and there_.

Dean took a few steps, coming up beside him, persisted. "So tell her we _don't._ It's still Jane's brain in there - she should be able to say _something_ we'll know."

"Not that easy," Crowley mumbled out of the side of his mouth. Possessing a body and acquiring the host's fluency along with it was one thing. Complete re-vamping into something seemingly cobbled together was likely quite another. Which he couldn't exactly break down for Dean at the moment.

" _So_ , what is she saying?"

Crowley sighed, keeping his head down, wishing Dean would shut the hell up for once.

"Is _she_ making all of them kneel like that? Why weren't _you_ \---"

Crowley jerked his head up to look at Dean, practically hissing his response. "Shut _up!_ "

And then, she surprised them: she'd understood what Dean had said, and answered him, a longer series of short sentences, though still in that language. Even _more_ surprising, some of her words - the ones closer to the "modern" Enochian in which Crowley was fluent - had been adjusted to an approximation he could better work with. He was, to put it mildly, amazed.

There were a few words in her reply with which he struggled - "design" or "desire", though it could have been "taught" or "trained"; "respect", maybe closer to "believe"; "creators" versus "makers", or perhaps even "parents"; "need" and "want". The last noun was less questionable - "guards" or "guardians"; could've been "watchmen" or "watchers".

But "force" - that one he knew for certain; therefore, her answer had been something like:

_You know this is their design. To respect their creators. I have no need to force the watchers to do anything._

Crowley's face gave him away, and Dean verbally pounced. "I know you got that - spill."

Keeping his voice lowered and calm, and hoping she'd assume he only understood part of her reply, Crowley chose only to reveal the last element. "She said she has no desire to make them do anything."

The demon wanted to further consider the other parts later - should he _have_ a later - on his own. _Creators_ , plural. _Designs_ or _desires_ , _guards_ or _watchers_ , didn't matter. Either way, it was all deserving of more processing.

Crowley pulled himself out of his thoughts, as she'd apparently had enough of Dean's bold attitude and got in close, _so_ close Dean actually stumbled a step or two back. She was eyeing him a bit sternly. Taking advantage of her re-positioning, Sam moved closer to Dean, not wanting his brother to take on the full measure of whatever came next.

Again, a handful of impatient words - a question:  _Why will you not speak to me?_

Dean and Sam waited on Crowley to translate, watching his eyes occasionally close and his lips move a bit as he concentrated.

Crowley, head still bowed, thought he'd venture out onto a proverbial limb, try to take Dean's suggestion, interspersing a bit of English with the Enochian. After he spoke to her, he opted to go further out on that limb. Raising his gaze to Dean and Sam, he relayed the exchange.

"She seems to be confused as to why you two can't understand her. I - well, hopefully - said: _They do want to answer. They are unable. They have no knowledge of these words_."

The demon just barely cut his eyes over to her; he was relieved to see her head had tilted, her gaze now hitting somewhere on the floor, thinking as she turned, meandered a bit, away from the brothers, to Dean's visible relief. Then, looking to Crowley, she spoke not a sentence but separate words. Oddly, it was in Latin; on the other hand, perhaps not-so-much, as it was more in the ballpark of what seemed to be her native language, which was hell and gone from English.

Her words came out haltingly, like she was mentally looking them up one by one in a translation dictionary. "E-Ego.... recognosto.... eos?" A pause, more thought, then, seemingly satisfied, she finished. "Ita vero. Eos."

Sam's eyes lit up and he smiled, looked at Dean, telling him, "She recognizes us."

Dean rolled his eyes, raising his arms up and letting them fall back down, uttering a huff of frustration at yet another _language_ he couldn't understand. For all his repeating of Latin incantations in countless rituals, he admittedly hadn't retained much of a damn thing, just pure memorization of the words and the actions to which they related. And when he settled back to a normal stance, he saw she'd brought her eyes to him, unmoved, watching his tiny tantrum. She looked to Sam, that thinking expression coming across her face again, this time pointing in their general direction, continuing to say singular words.

"Fratres."

Sam nodded.

"That's _brothers_ ," Crowley told Dean, earning him a quick glance from her, and a glare from Dean.

"Yeah, thanks, that one I know," Dean replied dryly.

Now she sported a slight frown and narrowed eyes, though not in anger or frustration, just still digging through that mental dictionary.

"Can you try this? How I'm talking?" Sam asked gently, pointing to his mouth.

Less of a frown, continued pondering, a bit of lip-chewing. Her eyes went back to Dean. She mimicked his huff, seeming to want to convey that she shared his frustration, which made the corner of his mouth go up, though he kept a smile at bay.

"High... high school... Latin? Latin classes," she slowly and carefully said. Her nose wrinkled, as if she'd confused herself. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, considering and re-considering what to say next.

The furrowed brow went away. She glanced away from them as she rolled her shoulders to the front, to the back, moved her head slowly to one side, the other, stretching. She reached behind with both hands, running her fingers through the sections of the feathers she could reach and letting them flop back a few times. Then she looked at them once more, silent.

"Does, um," Dean began with a touch of hesitation.

She looked at him with a scant eyebrow raise when he stopped.

"Do those... hurt? Are they too heavy? Or are they... Do they feel...?"

She seemed to be waiting on him to continue, and when he didn't, she answered,"Strange."

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, then back to her.

"How does the rest of you feel?" Sam asked.

More consideration on her part. A sigh. She extended her hand, moved it back-and-forth as Crowley had done earlier. "Strange," she repeated.

"Yeah, I bet," said Dean, grinning before he could stop himself. Death and feathers aside, he thought she seemed pretty with it. After all, this wasn't exactly the strangest situation _he'd_ been in. A nagging part of him hoped his past experiences weren't causing him to low-ball this one.

She looked at him with no expression. He let the grin slip away. But she continued to stare for several moments before speaking. "How do _you_ feel?"

He was visibly caught a little off-guard. "I, uh... hell, I'm right there with you, sister," Dean told her, and sincerely.

And though he'd meant _sister_ in a more generic sense, her expression was one of confusion. "You _do_ know me."

There was such a Jane-like quality to her tone then, it hurt his heart a bit to hear it. "Well, yeah," Dean replied softly.

" _He_ knew me," she said, glancing in Sam's direction.

Dean also glanced at Sam, noted the overthinking expression that was in full effect, then looked back to her. "Of course I know you."

She clearly considered this carefully, studying his facial expression for more than a few beats. Then her own expression relaxed. The cobalt faded, the only area remaining in the irises of her eyes, making them Jane's again, minus the shock of vivid blue where the brown should be. And her voice was calm, measured when she responded with a singular question.

"Then why are you so afraid?"

Now he was _definitely_ caught off-guard. "Because... because I thought... before you got up, I thought..." Dean trailed off, and er forehead creased again, though he couldn't tell if it was from concern or confusion or just hunting for the right words. She took a step back, looking at both him and Sam when she replied.

"I did _not_ leave you." A brief pause, then a distinctly more firm clarification. "I _will_ not leave you."

Sam swallowed. Dean held his breath. _Her_ not leaving - that was what they were beginning to worry about.

She then turned in Crowley's direction, extending a hand, flicking two fingers upward, motioning for him to rise.

Dean and Sam assumed it wasn't an actual commanding of his body, because Crowley blinked, clearly taken-aback, despite her earlier assertion of not needing force. And he supposed she'd been honest, as he found himself willing to follow her instruction. So when she raised her eyebrows at him, motioning again for him to rise, he did so.

"There is only one complete language... here," she told him, once he stood and brought his head up to face her. She took a few steps in his direction as she gestured faintly to the side of her - of Jane's - head. Crowley didn't respond right away, but she kept her gaze trained on him. "Fragments of others. This one is your... choice? Preference?"

"Yes." And as an afterthought, he added, "Thank you."

A slight nod of acknowledgment, followed by a few more steps towards him. "There should be... many... multi... multitudes... here now." She extended both hands, fingers splayed, palms down, pressing into the air, in the direction of the floor. " _Here_ ," she emphasized.

She didn't mean Jane's mind, as before. She meant languages on the _planet_. And for reasons unknown, was perplexed a human woman wouldn't be able to communicate using any and all of them. She kept that intense look trained on him, and it rapidly grew to a hard stare - though she'd made a statement, she was obviously awaiting an answer.

Assuming that answer was expected from him, though he didn't think he had a particularly good one, he opted for simplicity, saying, "She is quite young."

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, once more on the same page. They did not like how Crowley seemed to be inferring that she and Jane were not one in the same. Nor that she didn't bother to dispute it before continuing.

"And you are not."

"No."

" _They_ are not," she clarified, cutting her eyes away briefly, left and right, referring to the demons and the angels.

"It... varies. But, no. Not this young."

He received a slow nod, a brief up-and-down appraisal in return. Then she looked across all the obeisant demons and angels, barking out what was apparently an instruction in that peculiar language. They were all startled, as before, but remained on their knees. She turned her head back to Crowley, arching an eyebrow.

He gave her a tiny shrug, an impish grin. "Not _that_ old."

The grin faded when she did not reciprocate, and Crowley cleared his throat, leaning in slightly, cautiously gesturing for her to do the same. She complied, and he whispered something in her ear. She nodded again, turned away.

Walking to one side, she crossed over to the wall, demons and angels scooting out of her way. She ran a hand in a curvy path along a fairly wide area, moving a few steps to the side at one point, repeating the process, then returned to her original position. Making a fist now, she knocked on the wall lightly, listening, like someone preparing to hang a picture by first locating a stud. Seeming to find what she wanted at a point a little above her height, she raised her arm and turned her fist pinky-side to the wall, giving it a solid, singular bump.

Glancing over her shoulder and around to the other sanctuary walls, she - as well as Dean, Sam and Crowley - observed a faint, opaque, narrow ribbon of a shimmer originate from her strike and quickly travel the circumference of the entire chapel.

"I wonder if she's also available for jukebox repair," Dean mumbled to Sam, who responded with a _look_.

She crossed back to the aisle, surveyed the crowd again, and gave them an order that echoed off the walls.  _"LEAVE!"_

And they scattered, dashing out the now fieldless door, even diving out the windows and the opening created by the damage in the left transept. Some were helping others who were struggling up off of their knees - demon, angel, didn't matter - and others grabbed the severely wounded and the pseudo-dead, dragging them along. For once, they had a united mission: getting out. _Fast_.

As Crowley moved to follow suit, she raised a palm, stopping him by clamping it on one of his shoulders; he winced.

"You stay," she told him quietly, cutting her eyes over to stare directly into his, leaving no doubt this was at the very end of the suggestion spectrum, close to crossing the line into the territory of a direct order.

A small, slightly nervous nod and response from the demon. "As you wish," he mumbled, stepping back, forming a line with Sam and Dean.

"Why didn't they just... you know..." Dean asked Crowley, ending the question with a single-note whistle.

"She took away whatever was blocking the doors, but something's still ---"

"Not everything is in these walls."

It had been odd, seeing Jane's voice come out of a body not entirely hers, but just hearing it now, floating over to them as she was slowly walking away, made Dean relax a bit - and made him feel a little bolder.

He watched for a few more moments as she methodically made her way forward, looking up and down each pew as she went, stepping over or around the pieces of broken pews and scattered hymnals. He moved, falling in step behind her, his own shoes now adding to the crunching sound her boots made as they ground window glass into the aisle runner. While carefully matching her speed so as not to bump into her, he decided to ask a question.

"What... um... what does that mean? Not all in the walls?"

"There must be more around... on..." She trailed off, raising an arm, making a circular gesture, then slowed, followed shortly by a stop mid-aisle, ceasing the gesturing to snap her fingers twice.

Sam elbowed Crowley.

"Oh... ah... the perimeter?" Crowley suggested.

"Mmm." It was her only approval, and she resumed walking. The pews and spaces between them having been apparently surveilled to her satisfaction, she picked up her pace slightly, headed straight for the table. To Castiel's lifeless form. Next to the stairs leading up to the table now, she went up one step, stopped, and began studying the scene.

Sam and Crowley shared a glance, walked up the aisle and onto the elevation, and stopped just behind Dean. Sam diverted his eyes from the table, but Crowley stared. Not out of any sort of glee or gloating - he was appalled. They'd thrown things aside with no regard, apparently to reach the bits normally obtained from the sides or the back. It looked like an autopsy.

"They dissected him," Crowley muttered, a slightly disgusted look coming to his face.

Dean froze before climbing the step with her, seeing Castiel, quickly turning his head - and most of his body - in the opposite direction. Her eyes had cut to Dean briefly, then she'd resumed her observation of the angel's body. Seeming to forget momentarily which tongue she was to use, she spoke in the other language. She'd asked Dean a question. Dean shot Crowley a _look_.

"Something like - _He is yours, then?_ " Crowley translated.

Dean blinked a few times, but angled his body back in her direction, still taking care to look more at the floor so as to avoid the horror next to them, answering, "Yeah. Yes."

She ascended the last few steps, siding up to the table, her eyes continuing their roving up and down, back and forth, still not looking at Dean when she responded to his confirmation. "You have taken very poor care of him," she stated calmly.

Dean's head jerked up, his expression a mix of hurt feelings and anger.

But both faded away as he watched her - how gently she moved her hand over Castiel's head, closing his eyelids over the fixed and dilated left, the empty socket of the right. How she bent slightly, slowly bringing his dangling forearm up to rest on the table. How she seemed to be purposefully blocking their line of sight to the worst of it with her own body, bringing those oddly-hinged wings up to rest on her shoulders like a shawl, creating a bit more width. It was the thoughtfulness - how that was so much like Jane.

She glanced behind her, then around the area near her feet, not finding what she wanted. Her gaze came to rest on the hilt of the blade still present below her sternum. With one swift movement, and not even the first sign of a flinch, she pulled it out, flipped it around in her hand, observing it, moving her hand up and down slightly as if to gauge its weight. A bit of dark, thick blood oozed from the puncture site; there was a faint sucking sound that made all three members of her audience grimace.

"Who... ah, who did that? To... to..." Dean began, but left the query unfinished, not sure if he should say "you" or "Jane".

"He is called Jamie," she replied without a trace of upset.

Dean had the opposite reaction and looked at Sam, fury washing over his face as he declared, "That son of a bitch." He looked back to her as she sighed, shook her head in disappointment as she continued to look at the blade, unimpressed.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Cheap," she replied crisply.

She moved her hair out of the way, pulling it around to one side, as the wings not-so-smoothly came off her shoulders and went lax, their bottom portions flopping onto the ground; graceful, they were not. Now she raised both arms up and behind her, grasping the collar of Castiel's tattered trench coat and slicing it in two. Setting the blade down on the corner of the table, she reached back up with both hands and with a yank, the fabric split further, meeting up with the tear created where the wings had pushed their way out. Lowering her arms, again reaching behind, another yank and the tear now met up with the trench's back vent.

What was left of the garment slipped easily off her arms then. She put one half atop the other, meticulously folding them over before gently laying the bundle over the angel's gaping torso. Only then did she begin to move around and behind the table, scanning the floor as she went. Their view no longer obscured, Sam felt his shoulders relax a bit to note that the body... that _Castiel_... somehow didn't seem so torn apart anymore.

"That is the most considerate monster I've ever seen," Crowley whispered to Dean, who shot him a dirty look.

"Who were they?"

All three snapped back to attention at the sound of her - Jane's - voice.

"The butchers?" asked Dean, receiving a curt nod in response.

"We don't know," Sam answered for the group.

Her head came up at that, and she looked pointedly at Crowley. The demon did not seem to be intimidated, even when she stared just that extra beat too long, the point when most would've broken under such scrutiny, and he continued to hold his calm affect even when Dean and Sam joined in.

"I haven't the foggiest," Crowley finally said. "I would be pleased to have my ---"

She turned her gaze to the brothers, cutting off the demon's buttering up before it reached full-tilt, stating, "They were not like the rest. They were more like the two of you."

"You mean... you mean, just regular dudes?" Dean asked.

Those near-pitch eyes narrowed. "Regular dudes?" she repeated.

"He means, not a demon, not an angel," Sam offered.

"They took pieces of each organ - a chamber of heart, a lobe of liver, so on. Where there are two things, they took the whole of one - an eye, a lung, a kidney. And a single rib. Curious skeletal sample; do make mental note to ask the reasoning."

"You think we'll track them down," said Sam, not asking a question.

She glanced up briefly, a definite spark in her eyes, and the fraction of a grin that hit her face was tiny, but enough that both Dean and Sam would definitely classify it as somewhere between mischievous and wicked. " _You_ have already thought it tenfold."

All were quiet for several moments as she continued scanning the floor behind the table.

"You saved his head," Dean pointed out, breaking the silence, his tone conveying appreciation.

"We shall see." She paused, crouching down out of their sight behind the table. When she reappeared, it was with a handful of small, empty bottles. She tossed the bottles over, each of them catching one, the last remaining in her hand.

Dean looked at the label. "Suss... suck..." he tried to read aloud.

"Succinylcholine," she said, followed by holding up the bottle in her own hand, adding, "Rocuronium." Letting it drop back down where she'd found it, it audibly clinked against something. "There are more of the same," she offered, confirming the suspicion that had crossed their minds.

Moving to the end of the table, where Castiel's head rested, she went on. "Used in emergency and surgical procedures. They paralyze, but do not sedate. He would have felt all of it."

Dean briefly wondered if that was just Jane talking, though it was stated in a colder manner than he'd have expected from her. Yet she almost immediately went back to that careful kindness. It felt as bizarre as hearing her speak the other language.

"What _did_ they want with you, little one?" she murmured, gently brushing some hair off of Castiel's forehead. Turning Castiel's head towards the sanctuary as far as it would go, exposing and elongating the right side of his neck, she slowly began pulling on something. Dean and Sam came closer, observing that it was emerging from a large vein. She held it up for them to see: a long, thin, hollowed metal tube.

"That's how they put it in him? I don't---" Sam began.

"But he's an angel - that crap shouldn't have worked," Dean interjected, cutting him off.

"The field compromises energies," she told them, and, after a brief pause, added, "Made him almost a regular dude."

The brothers both looked down sadly at their friend.

"Oh, Cas," Dean said softly.

"This," she continued, still looking at the tube and rapping it against the opposite palm, "is not theirs."

They looked back up to her, and now Crowley also climbed the steps, coming closer, listening.

"You mean - they didn't bring it with them?" asked Sam.

Ignoring him momentarily, she tossed the tube to the floor, then wrapped a hand around each of the stakes that pinned Castiel's shoulders to the table, pulling them out, holding them up as well. "Nor are these." The stakes were of the same metal material as the tube, silvery in color but not shiny like an angel blade. Rather, they were buffed, and with a bit more of a grey tone - same as the blade she'd pulled from herself. She threw the stakes over her shoulders, sending them careening down the steps and to the sanctuary floor. They followed her lead, tossing away the empty medication bottles they held.

Something seemed to click with Crowley, and he looked to Sam and Dean, saying, "I believe she means the butchers weren't working alone. Someone provided those tools for use on Cas."

Dean picked up the blade that Jamie had used to stab Jane. "Gee, I wonder who?" he asked sarcastically, letting it fall from his hand to the floor without ceremony.

"Those were not his, either," she coolly responded. She'd moved on to the other side of the table, pulling the stakes from Castiel's femurs one at a time, then tossing them away. "That vermin does not have the mental capacity for such technology."

Atypical verbiage aside, that was _definitely_ Jane talking.

Now a tiny frown came over her face. She shifted a bit, brought a hand up to her left hip, shifted again as she gripped it. She rocked ever-so-slightly forwards and backwards.

"What is it?" asked Sam.

"Weak bones."

Sam thought he heard strain creeping into her voice, and he glanced to Dean to determine if he thought the same, but his brother was focused on what she was doing with Castiel.

Reaching across the angel again, she pulled his legs together tightly, centering him on the table, leaving space on either side, then she looked at all three of them. "You will want to move away."

Sam and Dean shared a quick look, then obeyed, backing down the steps and into the aisle. Crowley followed suit, though he retreated off to the side, putting more than a few pews between himself and the alcove for good measure.

Removing the folded coat from his open torso, she lifted Castiel's head and placed it underneath. Then, catering slightly to her right side, she quickly launched herself up and onto the table, planting a knee on either side of Castiel's legs, inching up incrementally until she was within reach of his chest. Giving the open cavity one last glance, she plunged her right hand inside.

Dean's and Sam's heads tilted upwards at the same time when the candles in the chandeliers lost a bit of their glow. Their gazes lowered to the table again. In unison, their strides in sync, they put themselves in reverse for several more steps.

They watched her intent focus, how she moved her hand up and down, then back, coming to a standstill near his heart - where his heart _should_ have been. And something felt odd, not like a breeze, but something in the air had noticeably changed. Dean pushed up his sleeve - the hair on his arm was standing on end. A chill ran up his spine.

Sam's eyes were still vacillating between watching her work and looking to Castiel's face - he could have sworn it wasn't as ghostly white. She inched up the angel's body further, now laying her other hand over his forehead, still in deep concentration. And Dean inhaled sharply.

Castiel's hand had twitched.

Sam clutched Dean's arm, slowly beginning to step forward, but Dean laid his hand atop Sam's, subtly shaking his head. Sam nodded and stood still.

She sat up straight and in one swift movement, slipped her hands between Castiel's torn-open shirt and skin, one on either side of his rib cage, pushing it back together with such force, his body jumped - and so did her audience.  A final once-over, and it appeared she had completed her work, as she climbed off the table. Then she suddenly went stiff before sharply looking to the ceiling.

This time when Sam moved forward, Dean followed after. They met her as she descended the steps, wiping Castiel's blood off of her hands onto the back of her skirt as she went. Something definitely had her attention, and it wasn't any of them.

"Is he-" Sam began quietly, his attention still focused on Castiel.

She held up a finger in his direction. "Shhh," she admonished.

Dean glanced up at the ceiling, then back at her. "What are you-"

She clamped a hand over Dean's mouth with great precision, despite not looking at him, and he frowned. "You hear it?" she whispered.

He shook his head, her hand still in place; she released his mouth, but her focus remained on whatever was above.

"Hey, Dean, hey," Sam said quietly, but with urgency, not looking at Dean, just batting at him with his hand, and Dean looked to him as she wandered away, up the aisle.

"Look," Sam said, pointing.

Castiel's legs - now _they_ were twitching, too.

Crowley came forward as well, and the three ended up in a row in front of the table, staring. The angel had regained his coloring for the most part, and a fairly pronounced divot ran vertically up his abdomen and chest, lightly reddened in the middle and pink around the edges. They watched as the indentation was slowly rising to meet the rest of his skin, the red fading into pink, then beginning to fade away altogether.

Dean cautiously reached out a hand, touching Castiel's. "He's warm," Dean said, astonished.

Crowley's eyes flicked as he gave Castiel a quick once-over, then returned to normal as he looked at them. "And intact. Well, _mostly_."

"Does he have a pulse?" Sam asked no one in particular, but then grabbed one of Castiel's wrists to answer his own question.

Dean crouched a bit, looking across Castiel's chest - it was every-so-slightly expanding and contracting. "He's... I think he's _breathing_."

"Sssshhh! Do you two ever _hush_?"

All three turned - Jane's voice, Jane's tone again, but she was still staring at the ceiling, her head moving occasionally, her eyes following whatever she was hearing.

What they didn't realize was that the aforementioned vermin was crawling in the space between the chapel's ceiling and the roof.

This was because Jamie _had_ to see what was happening, but there was no way he was going to risk being seen or heard. Yet he felt sure, given the rotten state of the structure, that he'd easily be able to make enough of a hole, somewhere discreet in the ceiling, so he might observe. Perhaps even get some of it - whatever _it_ happened to be - recorded on his phone. And so, having punched his way through a wall in the belfry, then again through the wall into the chapel, he had slowly wormed his way around cobwebbed beams and useless scraps of insulation, making his way over what was the ceiling of the intact transept.

Unfortunately, his demon status had not transformed him into a critical thinker, and despite having spent a substantial amount of time at the chapel, prepping it for this very event, getting quite familiar with its floor plan, he had cut over too quickly. The transepts jutted out from the chapel, creating the expected, typical cross shape were it viewed from above, but like its mirror on the other side, it was more like an "L". The chapel was given additional width via outer hallways down the length of the structure, containing small rooms for changing into choir robes or preparing communion, a modest office for the preacher, and doorways to enter the far end from the sides. Jamie's intention was to end up near that side's hallway door to the sanctuary, across from its twin door, the one Castiel had been brought through to face his fate.

Instead of continuing down the transept and setting up shop there, however, Jamie had put himself somewhere over the open area, and did not realize that he was currently crawling to the right of the aisle. He cursed under his breath when he caught his - very expensive - suit jacket on an exposed nail for the umpteenth time, scrunched his nose as he navigated around rat carcasses, jumped when he thought he heard something rustle nearby.

Then he sucked in a huge amount of air, gasping loudly as another _something_ disturbed his hair.

Below, Sam and Dean and Crowley turned from the table when they heard creaking.

"What the hell," Sam muttered.

They watched the pews, intact and not-so-much alike, begin to right themselves somewhat and squeak against the floor, moving in the direction of the open space. Looking up the aisle, they saw she had moved even further away. She'd extended her arms out to her sides, moving her hands back-and-forth a bit at the wrists, like she was ushering the pews along, hurrying them. They dodged her and bumbled up the small set of steps. And then they started to arrange themselves in a pile, going higher and higher in a misshapen sort-of staircase til they stopped just short of the ceiling, near a chandelier.

"She's friggin' Mary Poppins," Dean whispered.

She looked over her shoulder at them, brought a finger to her lips, followed by glancing up and pointing.

Above, the sneaky demon was growing quite irritated -  the _something_ was a damn bat. Jamie wrenched it from his hair, squeezed the life out of it. He managed to pitch it away right before everything came out from under him.

She'd scaled the new structure quickly, Sam immediately rushing over to do what, he didn't know, only that he felt nervous somehow that she'd fall again.

Dean hesitated, looking first to Castiel, then to Crowley. So Crowley looked to Castiel. The angel was ever-so-slightly moving his lips now, bits of sound coming out, mumbling in his sleep. And Crowley sighed, as if put out, when he looked back at Dean. "I'll stay with him. But I'm not giving chest compressions or mouth-to-mouth."

Deciding that was better than nothing, Dean took off after Sam. Coming up beside him, they didn't have time to theorize on what she was doing because they soon found themselves jumping out of the way. She had grabbed onto the chain of the chandelier, wrapped it a bit around her arm, then jerked it clean from the ceiling.

And amongst the falling plaster, out came a body, like the chapel was giving birth. First shoes, then the suit became visible, followed by Jamie's shocked face. She grabbed him, one hand gripping the collar of his jacket, the other arm wrapping around his neck in a choke hold.

Essentially riding him down the long drop from the ceiling, the wings caught the updraft, fanning out slightly, slowing their descent a small amount. He still hit the floor with a loud _whomp_ , though not as forcefully as Jane had hit when she'd fallen. Despite that lack of comeuppance, Sam and Dean felt a touch of internal pleasure at seeing her knee dig into his back as they landed. Jamie sputtered and coughed, but as soon as she'd gotten off of him, he immediately hauled himself up. His eyes were black again, and like a cornered animal, he assumed a defensive posture and actually snarled at her.

She didn't miss a beat.

_BAP-BAP_

Her fist had shot out and popped him twice in the face, catching his nose and cheek.

And _hard_.

"Ooomph!" he grunted, falling into a heap, eyes returning to normal, hands coming up to his nose.

A smirk immediately appeared on Dean's face, his pride evident as he elbowed Sam, who glanced over, pretty amused himself. "Eh?" Dean said, with a nod in her direction and an expression that conveyed _How's about that?_

But Sam's amusement faded quickly - he found himself growing ever concerned.

As Jamie began to scuttle away, his obviously broken nose beginning to leak blood down his lip, Sam watched as she frowned slightly at the sight of her own blood rising to the surface and breaking through the skin on the knuckles of her right hand. Then Sam saw the ever-so-faint tremble as she extended her fingers, flexing them open and closed a few times, a move he'd seen Jane do more than once. Recovering so quickly he wondered if anyone else even noticed it, she resumed her walk towards Jamie, the limp now more pronounced.

"I wonder if that's a Jane thing, or-" Dean was saying, as they began to follow.

"That's what I'm worried about," Sam cut him off.

Dean looked confused. "That Jane might know how to punch? What, afraid she'll deck you?"

Sam stopped walking and Dean followed his lead, taking in his brother's mega-forehead-bunching and hand-through-the-hair-ing, both telltale signs that he was most assuredly over-analyzing something.

"Not the punch, Dean. It's like Jane's coming through," Sam said, in a lowered voice. "I think she injured her left hip pretty bad in that fall, can't you see her limp? That wasn't there before."

"Sam --" Dean began, but once more was interrupted.

"And she just busted her knuckles open on his face. And she's got the shakes, I saw it."

"Maybe getting Cas into non-corpse mode wore her out," Dean posited. "Just... don't do that Sam thing, where you get all worked up about the stuff we don't know enough about."

"We know enough about what happens to fatally injured humans when whatever's possessing them leaves."

Now it was Dean who seemed to grow concerned, though he shook it off as he replied. "This isn't possession - it's obviously what Andrew's been doing to her ---"

"Dean, come on - that's definitely on the list of things we don't ---"

"--- and hell, maybe this was his plan all along. This might be permanent. This might be our new reality."

"What?" Sam asked, genuinely stunned.

"Jane's alive. So if this is the way she's gonna get to stay that way, well... I'm not crazy about it, but... I mean, that's one bad-ass bitch," Dean said, his pride in her coming to the surface once more. "And if she wanted us hurt, we would be. Or worse. That's all we got to work with for now."

They didn't carry on with their debate because Jamie seemed to come out of his daze then, his backwards-traveling, crab-like retreat picking up speed. And he was babbling. Incessantly.

"You look great and I didn't mean for you to fall I was going to lay you down and make you comfortable but it happened so fast and then you got up so I wasn't too worried and your skull will be fine did you know it's kind've cracked but not bad I mean it looks like you're healing and it looks like that stab closed up like gangbusters and wings wow how cool and you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen have you seen them is there a mirror somewhere because you need to look at how wonderful..."

As she was corralling Jamie closer to the front of the chapel, Castiel spoke in a croaky voice from his prone position on the table.

"Did I die again?"

"Well look who's bright and sunshiny," Crowley commented, glancing down briefly but then returning his focus to what he considered the far more interesting scene playing out before him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he did note the angel trying to sit up, yet only getting as far as raising his head a bit. Without fully turning, Crowley reached over, pushed down slightly on Castiel's forehead with just one finger. Not that he saw, but he received a frown in return, though Castiel acquiesced and returned his head to the table.

"I can't see," he stated.

"Likely because your eyes appear to be cue balls."

"What happened?"

"You got a bit of the Braveheart treatment. You died. Jane died. Then what appears to be a prehistoric angel with demon eyes put you back together." Crowley sighed. "Ah, Mondays."

"I was... less than lucid, so it's possible I was imagining things, but did Jane... did she come back... with..." A brief pause, as if he couldn't believe he was actually saying the last two words. "...with _wings_?"

Crowley fully turned to Castiel, since it seemed the action wasn't to continue for the moment and he was growing bored. Then the demon sighed again - it was about to be the second time in less than an hour he was going to reference scripture. The sanctimony always made him gassy.

"You know that passage about mounting up with wings as eagles?"

"Yes."

"Well, consider us mounted."

"What?"

"Suffice to say, our darling Jane is no longer weary. Those wind-whippers of hers drove one of your assailants right out a window. Nearly put the other through the wall face-first."

The corners of Castiel's mouth turned up just the tiniest amount.

"I'm sorry, are you smiling? Did you just take delight in the suffering of others? To say I am honored to bear witness to this does not nearly encompass-"

"Crowley," Castiel began, a bit of warning in his tone, though more out of habit than anything.

"I actually have warm fuzzies right now. I am _proud_ of you, Cas. Feels a bit dirty to say, but I like feeling dirty, so all the better."

Castiel turned his head in the demon's direction, the almost non-existent smile still present. "I do admit there is a small amount of joy."

"I'd shed a tear if I could bother to make one."

Meanwhile, Jamie was still panicked and scuttling away as she continued the slow push forward, Dean and Sam following not far behind.

And Dean was starting to become more aware of what Sam had been saying. While her word choices still seemed mostly non-Jane, the sentences were no longer clipped and to the point - not quite their sister's typically animated and occasionally rambling nature, but perhaps that was only a few measures away. It just didn't worry him like it did Sam. It encouraged him.

A touch of hope actually grew within him, that this was not a permanent state, that maybe, just _maybe_ , she would be - _could be_ \- restored. The main wound, the stab, seemed already healed. They could deal with a broken hip, he'd carry her back to the bunker if he had to. Just so long as she lived.

"You... I didn't... well... see..." Jamie was sputtering, seemingly run out of steam.

"I don't like violence," she said calmly, glancing at her knuckles again briefly.

Jamie actually let out a quick chuckle. "That's a shame. You're good at it." He blinked at the hard look she gave him in reply, the delight dropping away immediately.

"Your mentor didn't choose to fill you in on the details, I take it?"

"Not exactly... not this... not so much about-"

"So, I'm betting that's a no?"

"Um, well, no, but - wait, yes - I'm saying _yes_ , you bet right, that about the _no_ \---"

She extended her arm, and the blade used on Jane came flying into her open hand, from beside the table where Dean had dropped it earlier. It sailed close to Crowley as it careened up and over, causing him to jump. And as soon as she caught it, in one fluid motion, she threw it at a downward angle in Jamie's direction, pinning him to the floor.

Her aim perfectly pierced the inseam of his slacks near his crotch. It did not hit any part of him, a purposeful maneuver, as intimidation, not harm, was the goal. It worked - Jamie momentarily looked like he was about to pass out.

Dean, Sam and Crowley all simultaneously cringed, muttering _oofs_ and _arghs_ and _ughs_ in reflexive empathy.

"What happened?" asked Castiel, the words rapidly becoming his mantra.

"Wings would like to know what's happened," Crowley announced to the group nonchalantly.

"She's, uh... just making a point," Dean called over, then grinned at his own joke.

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Your puns are insupportable," Crowley informed Dean, who rolled his eyes.

"Stop your nattering, and listen well!"

Her sharp command to the cowering Jamie startled everyone - and he promptly shut his mouth and nodded vehemently in agreement.

"You're going to leave here, and you're going to tell the story. Tell what you've seen tonight to anyone in your collective who will listen," she began.

More nods.

"Then I want you to tell your boss that I'm making him a promise: when the rest of our family arrive ---"

Sam and Dean shared a _look_.

"--- we will finish the work we started. We will come for him. And our legion will follow."

She crouched down as smoothly as her hip would let her, looking him right in the eyes for the last part of her promise.

"You tell him death is coming."

Then she jerked the blade out of the floor and stood.

Again Jamie nodded, and he gulped audibly.

She raised an eyebrow. _"Say it,"_ she commanded.

"I - I - I will. I'll tell them. And tell him. All of it."

She looked at the blade in her hand for a moment, then brought her eyes back to his, flipped it, tossed it handle-first in his direction, saying, "You have actively and purposefully set out to destroy her life twice now."

"What?" Dean mouthed at Sam, who shrugged. He knew Jamie had cheated and left Jane upon her remission, but didn't have any guesses as to what exactly that statement meant.

Jamie had caught the blade, quickly put it in his jacket pocket, and while the others might've been perplexed, he seemed to know exactly what was being referenced.

"And there, ah, won't be a third time?" he asked, guessing at what she expected him to infer.

She stared at him for several long moments til he looked properly chagrined, then turned to the side, no longer blocking his path, and tilted her head to the door.

Taking the hint, Jamie rose and, not too slowly but not too quickly, began to make his way down the aisle. Just as he was passing her, she spoke one last time. He froze on the spot.

"The fear and the trembling - it won't be just now, in my presence. It will be even more in my absence. I suggest you begin to work out your own salvation."

A chill briefly went over Jamie before he resumed his exit, breaking out into a full sprint as soon as he was near the steps to the open area, clearing them all with a jump and not slowing, practically flying out of the chapel.

"Damn," Dean commented.

"Big damn," Sam agreed.

"That sounds like Philippians."

"Cas!" Dean exclaimed as he and Sam dashed over to the table, following the tired but strengthening voice, seeing their friend slowly begin to prop himself up on his elbows.

Crowley stepped away to let Sam and Dean get closer to Castiel, cutting his eyes to meet hers and, putting his hands in his pockets as he sauntered in her direction, met her halfway as she limped her way to the table. He stuck out his elbow and though an irritated look passed over her face, she accepted his unspoken offer, leaning on him a bit, taking pressure off of what was clearly an injury growing more and more uncomfortable.

"Cribbing our threats now, are we?" Crowley asked.

She gave him the tiniest of shrugs, seemingly unbothered by his cheekiness. "Many hours logged in something called Sunday school. Lots of memorized verses. It seemed an appropriate message."

"I would have to agree," Crowley replied, and as they came to a halt in front of the table, she released his arm.

"What's with his eyes?" Dean asked her.

Castiel's eyes looked as if a milky white shield was over them, the outlines of his pupils and irises ever-so-barely apparent.

"Healing."

"You can't just fix it?"

She turned her head slowly to meet his question with the flattest of flat expressions, and kept it that way as Dean cycled through a few facial expressions of his own before ultimately looking away.

"Some things do better on a simmer than a boil," she stated. Then she frowned. After a pause, she added on, "'Nanny always said'?"

"That's your... Jane's... adopted grandmother... sort-of," Sam tried to explain.

"I think that I..." Castiel stopped his comment before it had truly begun. He sat up fully now, shifting to perch on the side.

"We're waiting with baited breath here, Cas," Dean said, dodging the blind angel's swinging legs.

Not waiting for a completion of Castiel's thought, she spoke to him. "The important organs are functional. The rest will come back shortly. Your sight should be first."

Castiel nodded in understanding.

"The important organs?" Sam repeated. "Aren't they all important?"

Another head turn, the same flat look she'd gifted Dean.

"Are you some sort of angel?" Castiel blurted out.

"Cas," Dean gently chided him.

"Angels and demons, you all keep saying. I am neither," she replied, the faintest hint of confusion drifting across her face.

Slightly hesitant, Castiel spoke again. "You possess wings? With... actual feathers?"

The others shared glances, not wanting him to push her too far, as none of them knew her limits. She'd certainly been more irritable and impatient than Jane. And now those sparks at the edges of her eyes kicked up a notch. Yet as she conversed with Castiel, she didn't seem to be annoyed in the least.

"I do. For the present. All of your brothers and sisters did. Once."

Castiel opened his mouth to respond immediately - but he changed direction. "I heard how you wanted him... you wanted him to tell about it. To tell what he saw. Won't that put you in danger?"

"Not any danger he could bring. Not anymore."

"But you antagonized him, threatened him, and his boss," Castiel continued. "I could hear you throwing him around, why would you ---" He cut himself off when she laid a hand against his cheek.

"You're not to worry about your charges. I will help you guard them, little one."

While Castiel had been rendered speechless for the moment, Dean took note of her eyes. They were still dark, but the specks of bluish-white let him see they'd begun to move back and forth, like Jane's had done with him, back in Sam's bedroom. All of it felt like it happened a million years ago.

Suddenly she spoke in a different sort of tone than they'd heard all night, something mischievous, almost teasing. "Kurz gesagt - backpfeifengesicht."

Castiel chuckled, followed by a slight wince as he braced himself, placing an arm across his newly repaired thoracic area.

"What does that mean?" Sam asked him.

"Loosely - _In short, it was a face badly in need of a bitch-slap_."

This made both Sam and Dean, and even Crowley, grin. And Castiel raised his head more, trying to make his eyes meet hers. They managed to land in the general area.

"You have a lovely smile," she told him.

Uncomfortable at this, Castiel cleared his throat, but apparently felt one compliment deserved another. "You are very funny," he said, back to his typically dry, overly-serious tone.

And to Dean and Sam's surprise, a wide smile appeared upon her face without hesitation. "Perhaps. And you're right - your Germans _do_ seem to have a great word for everything," she commented, letting her hand fall away from his face and back to her side.

Castiel was clearly shocked at the reply, but then a solemn expression washed over his face as he told her, "Thank you."

His appreciation was not just for her compliments or comfort, and her response indicated she knew it. "You seem more than worthy of the effort. Would you like to leave this place now?"

"I thought we couldn't."

Moving her hand back up, she took firm hold of one of his, and said:

"Is that so? Let's find out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.  
> .  
> .  
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> Note: Huge thanks to my pal Schmitzy for the translation tip at the end.


	10. The Facts Were These (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head upon the return to the bunker - Jane's condition takes a turn; Sam and Dean confront Andrew - and each other; Castiel faces many new truths; Mose arrives mysteriously; Crowley reveals the beginnings of a long-kept personal secret

* * *

 

 _"Love her, but leave her wild." -_ _Atticus, poet & author: Love Her Wild_

 

* * *

 

**NOW**

Lucky you.

Seriously, you lucky little scamps. Everyone's busy, so you get me telling this part of the story. I mean, really, Fam - can you ask for more?

Well, scratch that - you already _did_ ask for more. You're an impatient bunch. And shouldn't you all be working on that thing, with the thing, over at the thing?

I kid, kids. Be not afraid. I bring you good tidings, great joy, all that the other junk. I'm actually very good with details. My work speaks for itself.

Anyway - I wish I could tell you that stuff calmed down once everyone arrived back at the bunker, but get real. Remember who we're dealing with here. Of course, you all know the end result - I mean, where we all are now, so you know how everything ended.

Long roads are like that, right? They wind around and they get bumpy and you just want to get the hell off it, just find another route... but, come on.

How boring would _that_ be?

* * *

**THEN**

The group looked at each other, still gripping hands.

They'd arranged themselves around Castiel during their last moments in the chapel. After grabbing one of his hands, she'd prodded the others with an encouraging look and tiny version of Jane's smile. So they had faith, and followed suit.

Then just like that, all five had popped into the war room of the bunker without a hitch. The action of the long night still hung around them. Though it was after eleven, it was likely no one would be getting much rest. And no one seemed particularly anxious to move, excepting Dean, who immediately dropped Crowley's hand upon their arrival - he'd somehow gotten stuck beside the demon for the trip back. Dean was appreciative for his quick thinking, shielding him back at the chapel, but not _that_ much. Crowley apparently felt the same, the first to break their circle, making a beeline for the liquor.

The next bit of movement came from behind Jane - a small clump of feathers fell from her back, fluttering around her feet, a few sliding under the table. Dean _did_ think of her as Jane at this point, because of how she was starting to look. The powdery darkness in and around her orbits was fading. Those blackened veins had lightened and seemed to be receding.

And Castiel's eyes were not the only ones changing back to normal - while the angel's irises and pupils had begun to break through at an ever-rapid pace, Jane's own had also made a return. Well, almost. The whites of her eyes had appeared, in just one blink, Dean had observed, as she gave the falling feathers a glance. The movement of Jane's head seemed to bring on a bit of vertigo and she swayed.

The way she stood, eyes cast down, slightly pigeon-toed in those goofy boots, looking a bit forlorn... the barrettes in her hair crookedly hanging on... the cardigan with the big buttons... it was a touch of normal wafting by. But then there was all the blood that had soaked her shirt, ran down her skirt, streaked over her tights, puddled in and on her boots. And those bizarre wings.

Dean thought she looked like an advertisement for an apocalyptic product targeted at people with his type of lifestyle, featuring a dystopian angel mascot. _All that murder putting a cramp in your style? Stop wasting money on new clothes! Get every bit of blood out with Heaven Scent Detergent!_ Dean realized how tired he was, daydreaming of all things. Even though it was still night. Whatever. He shook himself back to reality.

Jane had been between Crowley and Castiel, the former now enjoying his drink, the latter having released her other hand as Sam helped guide him down the hallway to his bedroom so he could borrow a shirt to replace the one the surgeons had cut open. And so it was Dean who approached her cautiously, arms ready to catch her if she were to pass out. But she steadied herself, then reached up, began rubbing her temples.

"Janey? How you doing?"

A few blinks. Parted lips, as if to speak, though she almost immediately brought them together again in a tight line. Her expression was unreadable - perhaps it was simply exhaustion. She didn't seem in pain, she didn't seem confused or disoriented, but something was clearly off-kilter.

Dean stepped closer, studying her face. While her eyes were no longer demon-esque, her pupils were still dilated to the max. And now that the darkness creeping around under her skin was fading, he also observed what was going to be a nasty bruise coming up on the left side of her face. "Did he hit you?" Dean asked her, a little more sternly than he intended, but in a daze or not, he wanted an answer.

Jane met his eye and nodded as she moved her fingers from her temples to just behind her ears, continuing to rub.

Dean wanted to whip his ass. Dean planned on whipping his ass. Dean was going to track the son of a bitch down and absolutely whip his ass. But for the moment, she needed support, not promises of the revenge he planned to execute on her behalf. Besides, Jane... or _not_ -Jane... had already decked him but good. Dean mentally added to his plan - _Wait to find douchebag til nose healed; break again._

Reaching up, he tilted her head gently to see if he could get a better look - he sighed. Definitely going to be an awful black eye. He also wondered if her cheekbone had been fractured and, if so, if it was intact by now. "Gotcha right in the ol' potato peeler, didn't he," Dean said, his tone light, but his face serious as he tried to make a determination.

Jane stiffened, moving her hands up and pressing the heels of her palms into her temples. Her fingers splayed across her skull, gripping tightly, eyes slamming shut. She jerked away from Dean's touch, stumbling backwards, more feathers falling and skittering across the floor, a small moan slipping through clenched teeth.

Dean watched, felt helpless, but took a step forward.

"No no no no no no," Jane said, almost like a chant, backing away more til she ran into a wall.

"Uh-oh," commented Crowley, who'd just re-entered the room. "If horns or a tail pop out-"

"Shut up," Dean ordered him gruffly. To her, he said, "Jane, do you-"

"Stop it, stop it, stop it," Jane was saying, groping her way past one of the monitoring stations, that left hip looking like it was moments away from giving out on her as she was lurching to her right every time she tried to put weight on it. Jane's eyes lit on Crowley and she suddenly came at him, jostling him so hard he dropped his drink. Glass and scotch went everywhere. A shocked expression came over his face, and he gripped her arms as she seemed to be having that vertigo again. "MAKE IT STOP!" she pleaded.

"W-what?" Crowley managed to get out, looking to Dean.

"I don't know what happened ---" Dean was saying, but stopped cold when Jane grabbed her head and yelped.

"Well it would seem _you're_ causing it!" Crowley shot back.

Jane pulled away from him. Still grabbing onto objects as she went to keep herself upright and moving, she left the room quicker than her current status would've seemingly allowed. They took off after her, catching up as she'd made it to the hallway, headed towards the bedrooms and bathroom.

.  
/ / / /  
.

Castiel's clothing situation remedied - the angel now outfitted in a plaid flannel button-down that almost came to his knees - he and Sam had gone from the latter's room into the bathroom. At the same time Jane was descending into a state of distress, Sam stood by Castiel, leaning over a sink. Both were fixated on what they saw in the mirror.

"That's amazing," Sam commented, watching as Castiel's eyes were slowly going back to normal, the last bit of haze remaining over the blue irises.

"They feel... bigger," Castiel said, leaning in more, opening his eyes wide and tilting his head to-and-fro.

"Bigger?" Sam repeated, with a touch of a smile. "They look fine to me."

"No, not... I'm not sure how to explain," Castiel replied, gingerly touching around his eyes, above and below. "Inside. It's as if they're taking up more room."

"Maybe it's just some swelling," Sam suggested.

But any further theorizing was cut short - they both jumped as they heard a horrible series of sounds from the hallway, and it seemed to be headed their direction.

.  
/ / / /  
.

Crowley was closer to Jane as she made her way down the hall, alternating between the right and left sides, almost bouncing off of them, stumbling nearly to her knees on occasion, leaving wads of feathers in her wake. The wings were beginning to look more than a little sparse. She was still moaning and crying out every so often.

When Dean caught up and joined him, she let out a howling sound, grabbing her head with one hand, the other reaching to the wall as she pitched to the side. It was like her fingers were mini-jackhammers, piercing the wall effortlessly. She went down this time, a knee hitting the floor. Her fingers punched past the drywall, her hand shredding through the tiles, fragments of ceramic flying about, leaving a curved trail in the wall, following her all the way down.

"Will you _back up?!_ " Crowley yelled at Dean over his shoulder as he hustled over to Jane, trying to get her to her feet. The energy, the heat swirling within and around her radiated brightly every time Dean came near, so much so it actually stung Crowley's eyes. "You're hurting her, you dolt! You want this bunker to look like that sodding chapel?"

"I'm not _doing_ anything!" Dean hollered back.

.  
/ / / /  
.

 

Sam moved to leave when Castiel grabbed his arm, asking, "Have you called Andrew?"

"When have we had time?"

"You should call him. Now."

Castiel's mood had turned, and Sam noticed.

"Right before... before Jane... before I left her-"

"You didn't _leave her_ , Cas," Sam corrected him, assuming that's why the angel looked riddled with guilt - until he heard the rest.

"Sam, I injected her with multiple syringes of the medication at once."

"What? Why?"

Sam's answer would have to wait, because just then, Jane stumbled in. She was breathing rapidly, clutching onto the door frame like her life depended on it. And when Sam rushed over to her -

" _AHHHH!_ " Jane screamed, clutching her head again, just as she'd done upon Dean's approach.

Both Sam and Castiel's eyes grew wide. They watched as she made her way to the open shower area, grabbing onto one of the taps. The injured hip gave out for good this time, and she fell to the floor, taking the tap with her. Once more bits of tile sprayed into the air, and suddenly every shower head sprang to life, shooting out water with great force. They jumped away from the sinks, as the taps there had come on as well. Every one of them were pouring out at full blast. The water seemed boiling hot, steam almost instantly beginning to fill the room. They quickly stepped out into the hallway, finding an equally shocked Dean and Crowley.

Sam pulled out his phone.

"Are you gonna call-" Dean began.

"Already dialing," said Sam.

"How is she tolerating that?" Dean asked, barely stepping into the room.

Jane wailed from the other side of the ever-thickening fog, and Crowley put a hand on Dean's shoulder, pushing him back - Dean pulled away from his touch with a deep frown.

"I'm not going to tell you again," Crowley warned.

"Don't push me," Dean responded, clearly meaning it in more ways than one.

"What's this about?" asked Castiel.

"Every time big brother here gets anywhere near her, we get _this_ ," Crowley explained, pointing into the bathroom, "and I'd like to make it out of here intact."

"It's Sam, too," Castiel replied.

"What?" asked Dean.

"Sam's proximity sets this off, as well."

"What 'this', what does _'this'_ mean?" Dean demanded of them.

"Damn it!" Sam suddenly exclaimed, the hand not holding the phone making a fist and hitting the wall he stood near.

"Can we _not_ have every wall in here wrecked?" Dean exclaimed, though Sam's punch hadn't done any damage.

"Voicemail. Freaking _voice mail_. Again! The only help we have for Jane, and he-" Sam had cut himself off, as apparently it was time to leave his message, now saying tersely, "Andrew. Sam. Get your ass here. _Now_."

Dean agreed. It was getting old. _Fast_. And as Sam hung up and jammed the phone back into his pocket, Dean looked to Castiel and Crowley. 

"You two," he began, pointing a finger to each of them in turn.

"Us two," Castiel stated, unsure where Dean was going.

"Andrew's not the only help we have for her. She's not melting down around either of you."

Crowley cut his eyes over to Castiel, then back to Dean. "I'm not the nursemaid type, and I suspect I have deviants to punish back at my place, so-"

"Get. In. There," Sam said, stepping closer to the demon. He looked like he was getting ready to put Crowley through the wall, Dean's request be damned. And if the blood from earlier was still even remotely in effect, it was likely he could.

"All right, all right. Easy there Moose," Crowley replied, stepping away from Sam, continuing backwards into the clouds emanating out the door.

"We'll look after her," Castiel assured them, and followed behind.

Dean looked at Sam, whose expression had moved from furious to crestfallen. "I know," Dean told him.

"If she made it through all that just to-"

"I know."

.

* * *

.

Andrew felt it as soon as he'd stepped over the threshold of the archway and into the lab.

"Where is she?" he asked aloud, immediately walking towards the cabinet that essentially functioned as his version of a crash cart. He'd had it prepped for ages. He'd been afraid something like this could happen.

"In the bunker. Castiel and Crowley are with her. The Winchesters are keeping a wide berth."

Andrew pulled out supplies, setting them beside the cabinet, onto the counter next to where it resided, saying, "This hampered communication - no more. I'm not journeying outside your range, not even to the vault, not until she's... she's..." He trailed off, briefly pausing in his task, then got back to it, frustration written all over his face. He slammed a syringe down hard, cracking it. Fluid leaked all over the counter.

"Here."

Looking over, he noted his assistant had provided a new syringe in one of the trays on the long table in the center of the lab.

"Thanks," Andrew said somewhat absently, grabbed it, and walked briskly back to the counter. Finishing up, he shoved what he needed into the ever-present satchel he always seemed to have slung across him. Turning, he headed back in the direction of the archway he'd just come through.

"Wait."

"What?" Andrew asked irritably.

"The communication issue is likely to be remedied in short order-"

"What?" he asked again, this time with surprise.

"-due to the other matter which occurred in your absence."

Andrew closed his eyes briefly, back to irritation again. "I thought that was for tomorrow."

"A change of plans."

"Fine. It won't take me long. Adjust the location."

"Certainly." A brief pause. "Details sent. Your clothing will be attended to, as well."

Andrew glanced down; he'd forgotten. "Good catch."

But he didn't resume his exit right away.

"Is there anything else?"

"How is she?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"She's hurting. But she's stable."

As he began to walk away once more, his assistant's voice rang out again.

"On your right."

Andrew adjusted his trajectory, now headed to one of the other adjacent archways. A tiny smile appeared, despite his mood.

"What would I do without you?"

"The world may never know."

.

* * *

.

Crowley busied himself turning off the taps while Castiel made his way to Jane. " _Sssss_ ," he muttered as he was inadvertently splashed at one point, pulling his hand back quickly. He never dreamed the water in that musty old bunker could've rivaled the springs of hell, yet there it was. He removed his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and started using it on the faucets, then moved on to shutting off the showers.

"Jane? It's only me, just Cas," Castiel said softly, taking to his knees and slowly approaching her.

She was lying on her right side, to the very back of the room, eyes opened and fixed straight ahead, staring at nothing. The wings had all but collapsed by now, sparse groupings of feathers here and there. The bony cartilage protruding from her back even seemed to have given up, lying nearly flat against her body. She was soaking wet and shaking despite the heat. Castiel thought to give her his coat, before he remembered.

"Can you hear me?" he tried again, after getting no response.

Suddenly, her eyes jerked over to him. "It won't stop," Jane told him in a trance-like, but still slightly panicked tone. "They won't stop. I can't... I can't make them quit."

"Tell me what you hear," he said, inching closer, when she abruptly grabbed both his wrists, pulling, and he slid into her, his knees gliding over the wet tile.

Jane sat up a bit, put his hands on either side of her head, pressing into them with her own. "Get it out," she said tearfully. "Please make it go."

She pressed so hard, he began to pull away.

"Jane, stop it," said Castiel. It was as if she were siphoning strength off of him somehow - or maybe she was pumping it _into_ him, he couldn't say, but something was happening. Pressure everywhere. And despite his continued concern for her, he felt himself getting agitated. He also felt something start to give under his hands. "You're going to crush your skull," he said emphatically, now using all the might he could muster to try to pull away.

Jane continued pressing, undeterred, letting out faint whimpers.

"I said _stop_ ," Castiel practically snarled.

It caused Crowley to turn from the last set of shower taps, and he was shocked to see the angel's eyes. "Good god," Crowley gasped, before he could help it.

Castiel's eyes were now similar to how Jane's were at the chapel - and that faint glow was there, a ring around the edges of his lids, fading into the dark blue but rapidly growing brighter. Crowley immediately came to them and squatted, grabbing the angel's forearms and pulling. His strength combined with Castiel's was sufficient enough to wrench him away.

Jane crumpled onto her side again, tears streaming down her face, hands now thankfully too shaky to apply more pressure to her head. Crowley rolled his eyes, resigned to the fact that his suit was officially ruined, and knelt in the water, taking her hands in his own, just in case she tried to cave in her own head again. Then he looked over to Castiel, who was clearly in a state of shock - he was blinking repeatedly, again pushing around the orbits of his eyes as he'd done earlier.

"Look," Crowley told him, pointing with his chin to the mirrors.

Castiel rose, went to a mirror, wiped off the steam that remained, and took in a sharp breath. The glow had gone, but that dark blue remained. They differed from Jane's in that there was no blending into black, no crystalline specks. What they were, he thought in horror, despite the color, were demon eyes.

As Castiel continued to stare at himself, Crowley was listening to the mutters coming out of Jane. On the surface, it was a load of nonsense, but in and amongst it he thought he heard a few things that began to explain her condition. If he was right, her mind was overloading with a broad spectrum of information.

Castiel closed his eyes, still feeling like there was too much behind them, rubbed his lids furiously, when --

_FLICK_

\-- and he sprang back from the mirror; the dark blue had completely vanished.

"What's wrong?"

Dean's voice came from the doorway. The steam had almost dissipated, and he and Sam stood just outside the threshold, both staring in at Castiel. They'd seldom seen him so startled.

"It's... I'm not sure how... or what," Castiel blurted out, taking a few more steps away from the mirror.

Jane wailed and tried to bring her hands up.

"Oh for..." Crowley began, keeping hold of her wrists. He jerked his head around to glare at the brothers. " _GET AWAY!_ " he bellowed. Turning his head to Castiel, he ordered, "And you - get over here!"

Castiel composed himself, coming to Jane's side, this time by her head, so as to not look directly at her. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. He could've hurt Jane significantly, and he knew it. Lifting her a bit, Castiel brought the top half of her body across himself, letting her lay her head in his lap. He took her wrists from Crowley. She brought her hands up again, but this time just to curl them under her chin. Still muttering, tears occasionally still coming, Jane was rocking herself back and forth.

Noting she seemed contented for the moment, Crowley went towards the hallway, then paused and looked back - Jane had let out a tiny moan and curled up even more, rocked herself faster.

"Are we buffering her from something, somehow?" Castiel asked Crowley, a completely lost expression on his face.

"I don't know, but I do know if the two of us can barely prevent her from killing herself, how well do you suspect your other charges will fare?" Crowley replied gravely.

The look Castiel gave him in return told him they were thinking alike. The answer was definitively _not well_. Not well at all.

"Just... hold her, I'll..." Crowley sighed, and with another roll of the eyes. "I'll keep those morons away. And... I _suppose_ I'll come back."

The brothers had heard the weeping and then the moaning - they had gone away from the door, walked down the hallway, but the sounds Jane made continued to echo around the bathroom, seeping out and into their ears.

"Okay, that's it," announced Dean, and he started walking back, Sam on his heels.

Crowley stopped them in their tracks before they'd barely picked up pace. "Gentlemen," he began, holding up his hands.

"Nope," was all Dean said, and moved to go past him.

"I can report that it seems I was correct. You're causing her pain," Crowley said evenly.

Sam blinked in disbelief, asking, "What? _How?_ "

"She can... sense you. Sense everything. To her it's all very loud and very-"

"What do you mean, she can _sense_ us?" Dean interrupted.

"For the hundredth time, I don't _know_ , all I see is the closer you get to her, to that room, whatever carousel she's riding speeds up."

Sam was watching Crowley carefully. The longer he stared at the demon - mussed hair, crooked tie, slightly damp and creased brow - the faster his own heart began to beat. Crowley was worried.

Crowley rarely got worried.

Sam reached back, feeling for the wall, needing something solid. Leaning against it, he asked, "What is she saying?"

"When she _can_ get words out?" Crowley paused to sigh, dab his handkerchief across his face. "Mostly bits and pieces, some things about seeing energy, hearing echoes, too many colors."

"Well, those kinds of eyes? They can make things pretty intense, I do recall," Dean said, with a _look_ that indicated he wanted Crowley to tell him something he  _didn't_ know.

"Not _seeing_ colors," Crowley said irritably. "She's _hearing_ them, she's _tasting_ them, _feeling_ them. And other than her newer injuries and sprouting feathers? I gave her the old up-and-down-"

"You were able to?" Sam cut in.

"Yes. _Now_. And as far as I see, she's perfectly fine. It looks nasty but she's healthy as a horse - meaning _no mystery illness_ that Dr. Sexy's been on about. _Nothing_. Still - it's as if all her circuits are fried."

Dean and Sam stared, both silent and in thought. Then Dean made an announcement of a most definitive nature. One that Sam didn't doubt in the least.

"I'm going to kill him if he comes near her again."

"You don't seem to understand the gravity of this," Crowley said, with no trace of his typical flippancy. "Sam here seems to be in the appropriate amount of shock - you, on the other hand, are talking like you're protecting your baby sister from going to prom with some ne'er-do-well townie on a motorcycle."

" _What_ am I not understanding?" Dean spat, glaring.

Crowley began to loosen his tie. "That girl down there in the showers?" he said, briefly pointing down the hallway. " _That's_ your sister. Lovely gal, hate she's lost her marbles. But what was in that chapel? Whatever's hitching a ride?" He moved on to unfastening the first few buttons of his shirt." _That_ ," he continued, "was something powerful, something ancient, something I find disturbing."

Crowley pulled open his shirt and jacket, then up and back over his shoulder a bit, where not-Jane had briefly touched him at the chapel. Part of her hand print was there, reminding Dean of the evidence he'd borne of Castiel's intervention for him so long ago, though not as distinct. And not the welts that had sprung up on all three siblings prior... the first time her proximity to them seemed to set something off. This just seemed like a fairly severe sunburn.

Indoors.

Through a shirt and suit.

"What the..." Dean mumbled, not getting out an actual question.

Crowley began putting himself back in order, saying, "In case I'm not being clear: It is what hides in the shadows, waits to pounce, and then bats around Leviathan and Michaels and Lucifers, possibly Chucks and Amaras, til it's time to eat them for lunch."

Dean stiffened. "Don't say 'It'; she has a name."

Crowley shook his head. "She's not just Jane anymore. Your sister loves you, true. But you two would do well to ensure _it_ stays on your side."

"You didn't call me Moose," Sam said quietly, causing both Dean and Crowley to look over at him.

Sam closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead. Dean glanced at Crowley, then reached up, moving Sam's hair on one side - and there, where she had covered his ears, a faint pink. On his ears, a bit of his jaw and just behind it, like he'd been on the beach and neglected a thorough sunscreen application.

"Are you feeling okay?" Dean asked him.

Sam nodded. "Um, yeah. Yeah. I just... this is all..."

"Get in line. Ol' Cassy-Boy looks about a centimeter away from a nervous breakdown," Crowley said wryly. Just then, Jane cried out again, followed by more moaning. "Speaking of, he thinks he and I may be shielding her somehow, so I'll stick around until the good doctor arrives, but I think I've been more than helpful, wouldn't you agree?" Crowley asked, his tone indicating he could've given a damn if they agreed or not.

Dean turned briefly away from Sam, too distracted to muster up the will to throw snark at Crowley. "Fine. Whatever."

Crowley felt a tiny ping of hurt at the blasé reply, but turned and went back into the bathroom. Sure enough, upon his entry, the edge seemed to be taken off of Jane's discomfort. He leaned against the wall to the side of the door frame and crossed his arms.

"What now?" he asked Castiel.

The angel met his eye.

"I cannot even begin to say."

.

* * *

.

Jamie popped into the mansion and first went to his room, quickly changing clothes and combing his hair. He gingerly touched his still-swollen nose. It was slowly but surely healing, though a glance from anyone would notice the slightly crooked bridge, not to mention the hint of a black eye that still remained. He cleaned the blood off of his upper lip, then went to the dining room.

While the half of the dining room nearest the entrance had plenty of light courtesy of several lamps, the overhead lights of the two ornate chandeliers were switched off. Just as well - Jamie was leery of them at present. At the end of the long table, the light was dim. His boss was slightly silhouetted, thanks to the glow from the nearby fire in the enormous fireplace that took up the bulk of the wall to the side of the table. All Jamie could see clearly was a flute of champagne and his boss' hands moving over the cards laid out in front of him as he played solitaire.

This was typical, something to which Jamie had become accustomed. In daylight or in brightly lit spaces, his boss always wore darkly-tinted sunglasses. He was consistently dressed in long sleeves, regardless of the weather. He even read his reports in a darkened office, blinds drawn. Always that air of something hidden, something mysterious. But the generosity bestowed had more than made up for any eccentricities on his benefactor's part, and so Jamie honestly couldn't have cared less.

"James, my boy," he said warmly as Jamie entered.

"Sir," Jamie replied, standing at the other end of the table, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I saw it went splendidly. My counterpart called, and though her people came back in quite the state of disarray, she was more than pleased. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, sir."

"I take it _you_ are pleased with the rest of the night - your nose aside."

Jamie chuckled, then grew a bit more serious. "Yes, sir. Jane is... well, she was... I guess I just didn't expect..." He trailed off, genuinely not knowing how to explain what he was feeling. This was apparently obvious, given the reply he received.

"You don't need to explain. I have a good idea of what happened. Though I'm told the angel managed to, shall we say, put the pedal to the floor?"

"I'm sorry, sir. When we noted Jane's presence, it seemed prudent to cancel the bunker op. I was only able to bring back an inhaler. I've failed twice now to retrieve samples of Andrew's serums. The last report on the analysis of the sentry's tongue has not yielded substantive-"

A sigh came from the end of the table, and Jamie stopped speaking.

"No, James, _I_ am the one that owes the apology. I can only imagine the shock you felt, seeing your beloved in such a state."

"Yes, sir."

"I confess my protective nature, when it comes to you, overwhelmed my judgment. Perhaps I should have explained the transformation I expected to take place, given the years Andrew has devoted to Jane."

"No, sir. An apology isn't necessary."

"And what have I taught you? About that disgusting word _failure?_ "

Jamie smiled. "That there is no such thing - there are only opportunities to be better."

The flips of the cards coming off the top of the pile sharpened. The wood in the fireplace popped loudly. A more serious tone now came from the dark side of the room.

"You _will_ be better, James."

It wasn't a question. Nor was it a request. Jamie's smile receded immediately.

"Yes, sir."

A bright tone now.

"Come, have some champagne. A long-time goal of mine has come to fruition. And your soulmate lives!"

One of the servants standing at attention around the room walked to the credenza, retrieving a second flute, met Jamie as he took a seat closer to the shadows. She set it in front of him, then picked up the bottle from an icy bucket and poured. It was, as expected, a top-of-the-line vintage from the considerable collection in the cellar.

Jamie hated champagne. He could only tolerate it one way. Once when Jane had wheedled him into going to brunch, she had him try a mimosa. It was fantastic, though he'd made it a point not to let on to Jane that he thought so. And, he'd insisted the bartender put it in a pilsner instead of a flute, hoping it looked enough like a lager, all for fear he'd appear too girly. To _strangers_. Why the hell he'd cared so much back then, he couldn't say; he'd go to brunch now, every _day_ with her, if he could.

But for the moment, he clinked his flute on the one outstretched in his direction, then sipped.

"Jane loves peach bellinis," Jamie commented quietly.

A hand reached out from the darkness, squeezed his in a gesture of support.

"You'll have her soon, son. We both will. She'll be here with us before you know it. Hope is not a sin. Not in my house."

.

* * *

.

For the time being, the brothers had retreated to the kitchen, Sam downing an entire bottle of water almost as fast as Dean had gulped at least three shots' worth out of the bottle of Johnnie Walker that Crowley had left out. Sam killed off another half of a water bottle before he stopped and looked to Dean, who was bent slightly, his palms on the table, just staring down, shaking his head.

"If she can't be around us-"

"We're going to figure this out," Sam said calmly, his shock now worn off and his mind turning over options. "There's people we can call, and Cas, and maybe even Crowley can ask around-"

Dean stood up straight and looked at Sam with a frown. "Right. Because we want everybody and their mother knowing about her, that's just _brilliant_ , Sam," he shot back. "What else you got? Why don't we ask the internet? Hey, let's make a Tumblr, we can call it 'My Sister Just Turned Into An Alien' and see who comments with some hot tips."

Sam was momentarily caught off guard at the outburst, but for whatever reason, maybe just pure exhaustion, he'd fixated on one part of Dean's statement. "You know what Tumblr is?"

Dean's jaw tensed, but they just stared at each other for a few beats. Then the tiniest of smiles began to appear on both of their faces. Dean sighed and his eyes turned skyward briefly before he dropped them back to Sam's again. "What're we gonna do, Sammy?"

Sam thought for a moment, then said, "We're going to go back out there. We're going to be there for her, even if we can't be close. Then we're not going to give up on her. Ever."

Dean began to nod, slowly at first, then with more vigor. Sam nodded back, and they turned, going to execute what little of a plan they had. It would have to be enough for now.

Dean and Sam had just barely returned to their post - apparently enough out of range to prevent the sounds no longer floating out the bathroom from returning - when they both heard a door slam, followed by heavy footsteps, coming from around the bend ahead of them. Sharing a _look_ with Sam, Dean quickly sprinted to his room and grabbed the gun he kept under his pillow, coming back with a round chambered, raised and ready. Sam crept behind him. There was a small squeak of a sound from Jane as they passed by the bathroom door.

And as soon as they rounded the corner -

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean demanded, gun still at the ready.

"Where did you _come_ from?" Sam muttered, glancing down the hallway; it dead-ended at a single door.

Andrew's face was locked into a no-nonsense expression and he never broke stride, walking straight into what would essentially be Dean's line of fire, planting his hand over the barrel and pushing it down with ease. "Get out of my way."

Dean frowned. "The hell I will - answer me!"

Andrew took a step to the side; Sam stepped towards Dean and blocked him. Without another word, and just the barest hint of a fading form, he was on the other side of them, resuming his pace and going straight for the bathroom.

"Okay... okay, _whoa,_ " was all Dean could manage as he turned in almost a full circle, glancing around.

Sam responded quicker and put his long legs to use, catching up to Andrew rapidly. He grabbed the other man's bicep from behind, and though initially it felt like he was trying to move a mountain, Andrew whipped around to face him with absolute steel in his eyes. And Sam was surprised to note slightly brighter - _familiar_ \- specks of bright blue swimming around the already ocean-blue irises. Andrew no longer wore glasses and his blonde hair was combed back versus flopping across his forehead and to the side. His typically easy-going, sometimes borderline meek, persona was gone. Sam had known Andrew for years, but it felt like he was meeting him for the first time.

"You want to keep her in pain, I take it," Andrew said, getting close to Sam's face. "Because I don't. Yet you seem determined to stop me."

Dean caught up to them then.

"Let's do this now. That's appropriate. Really, she can wait," Andrew continued in an absolutely scathing tone. While Sam was taken aback, the other man's words only served to raise Dean's hackles.

"You son of a-" Dean growled, pulling back and punching Andrew on the right side of his jaw with what Sam knew was all the force Dean could muster, the same force that had taken down all manner of creature and human alike.

Andrew didn't flinch and his face moved not one iota. Sam cringed as he could literally _hear_ the bones in Dean's fingers and hand - possibly even forearm - fracture, sounding as if they'd truncated, pushing back into each other, the snaps and cracks ringing in his ears. Dean gasped, stumbling back a few steps, clutching his wounded limb to his chest, tears springing to his eyes as dropped to his knees. And Andrew showed no remorse, no sympathy as he glared down at Dean before briefly training the glare onto Sam, then turning, walking the rest of the way to the bathroom, coming to a stop in front of the door.

Sam helped Dean to his feet and they watched as Andrew pulled his pager from his back pocket. With a hand on either side, he twisted, pulling it apart, and reached up. He put both halves, end-to-end, right next to each other atop the frame and centered them, where they stayed fast. He entered the bathroom without another glance.

Coming closer, the brothers saw the small squares move away from each other, sliding along the frame before taking sharp turns downwards, now sliding along either side. The objects stopped upon reaching the floor, and a faint buzz, like a phone vibration, hit the air. They watched in a bit of awe as an opaque haze covered the open entryway.

"That's just like when she turned off that field at the chapel," said Sam.

Dean straightened up, still wincing in pain, but took a few steps closer and extended his uninjured arm. A shimmer passed over it at his touch, but there was no shock. It actually gave a bit, as if it were a bubble, yet held steady.

"Hey... hey, look - we're right here, and she didn't scream," Sam noted, bumping Dean's shoulder as he moved in front of him, touching the field gingerly.

Dean groaned when Sam jostled him. "Yeah, but _I'm_ about to."

At the same time, upon Andrew's entrance, Crowley pushed himself away from the wall. He watched as Andrew went to the nearby shower that had its tap ripped away, the only one Crowley couldn't turn off. Though lacking the pressure of the others, it was still sputtering scalding water from the head. He reached into the hole Jane had inadvertently made, grasping a what must have been a poker-hot pipe and pinching off the water with one squeeze. Crowley raised an eyebrow, turned to leave.

As Andrew pulled the strap of his satchel over his head, he paused, looked back, and spoke. "You could be of assistance."

"Nice to meet you, too. Heard lots of horrible things. Pleasure."

Andrew just looked at him calmly.

Crowley pondered this for a moment, then said, "Thanks for the offer. I suspect you'll do just fine without me."

He received a curt nod of acknowledgment in return, but as Andrew turned away, Crowley heard him add onto the response.

"The offer is open-ended."

With that, Andrew walked over to Jane and Castiel, and didn't seem to give Crowley a second thought. The demon was momentarily startled by the exchange, but for the time being, he intended on removing himself from the situation. Sam and Dean were concentrating on seeing what they could through the haziness covering the doorway, when they were surprised by Crowley's effortless exit from the bathroom.

"What?" he asked at their astonished looks. Receiving no answer, Crowley said, "See you crazy kids later." And with a snap of his fingers, he was gone.

Castiel had released his hold on Jane's wrists by this point, but he remained nervous that she'd suddenly spring back with more strength than he could handle. She'd gradually entered a daze in the interim, and save some mild mumbling, eyes moving under the lids, and the occasional tiny whimper, she was for all purposes catatonic. He wondered still if she was in the midst of a nightmare in this state just as she was in reality, but he didn't dare disturb her. He looked up as Andrew approached. Despite his questions - and to be sure, he had plenty - he remained convinced of what he'd told Jane: this man was not bad, this man was devoted to her. So at that moment, Castiel felt relief. Knowing Andrew was aware of - at a minimum - the broad strokes of their secrets, he spoke without regard for discretion.

"I was unable to fully assess Jane's condition before, but now I can," Castiel began, speaking quickly as Andrew knelt. "There's significant damage to her hip and pelvis, as well as the deep wounds and penetrating trauma to her back. There was another, to her torso, however that seems to be remedied. I attempted to heal her bones but it appears I wasn't as effective as I'd hoped. And her pelvis... I confess, I didn't even attempt it, as the simpler fractures already proved difficult for me."

After giving Jane a quick visual once-over, Andrew had looked at him, listening, nodding, waiting til he'd finished. The doctor seemed serious, focused, but not angry. And now Castiel received his own assessment as Andrew glanced at him from head-to-toe. "You must have had an interesting night. Warranted an upgrade, I see," he commented.

Castiel began to reply, then stopped and simply nodded.

 _Resurrected, yes,_ he thought. _But upgraded? Did he mean those horrific eyes? Was there something else?_

Castiel had been satisfied with his status prior to the chapel incident. After years of back-and-forth with his level of strength and power and stolen grace, he'd finally reached an equilibrium. Different perspectives notwithstanding, he felt more or less like the angel he was before he entered the Winchesters' lives. And he believed he'd have sounded ungrateful to say what he thought, which was that he wished Jane... whatever was _in_ Jane that brought him back... had returned him to... well, to _him_. Not an upgraded version of him. Not gifted him with another internal battle to wage.

Andrew was now studying Jane's left hip, which was facing up as she'd had enough wherewithal to lie on her right side. The left leg never came along with her right when she'd curled up, remaining splayed out behind her. Castiel had noted that the head of the femur was no longer in the socket - mainly because in addition to being displaced, it had also fractured.

"You got the main acetabular break," Andrew noted. "Femoral head fracture looks pretty good, too." He looked back to Castiel. "You did well. Her bones are still not quite where I'd like them, but they aren't exactly what you're accustomed to healing."

Castiel was surprised Andrew had so effortlessly given him such information. Such insight into what was happening with Jane. And it continued.

"The wings are going to be a challenge, I hadn't planned for those," Andrew said, reaching down and opening Jane's eyes one at a time, studying each briefly. She didn't stir from her catatonia, but Castiel felt her immediately go stiff as a board at his touch. "Your help would be welcome with that, if you're up for a trip to my lab."

"Oh. Of course. Absolutely. Anything you need."

Andrew smiled, still not looking at him, his eyes scanning over each part of Jane's body quickly but carefully. "I will take that as a 'yes'," he replied.

No stethoscope. No blood pressure cuff. No feeling for her pulse. Andrew was most assuredly not concerned with hiding the broad strokes of _his_ secrets, either.

Now Andrew tapped a few fingers on the tiled floor, in thought. "Let's try this," he said, motioning to Castiel. "Start raising her up." He reached down, bending Jane's right leg back further, so it would tuck under her as Castiel got her upright, keeping her tilted off her left side. The wings remained flat, smashed against her back and lying limply to the side so, working together, Castiel and Andrew were able to gently prop Jane against the wall. Castiel kept a hand pressed against her right shoulder to keep her steady as Andrew pulled a small box from his bag. It had a lid and when he flipped it open, Castiel noted a two-sided container akin to a contact lens case inside. Andrew lifted the covers and each held a tiny silvery dot, no bigger in diameter than a pencil eraser, no thicker than a sheet of notebook paper.

"What had she been saying before?" Andrew asked.

"I couldn't understand much of it - but it seemed her sight and her hearing were picking up..."

"Everything?"

Castiel nodded. "I've experienced similar."

"Angels can be chatty," Andrew said with another small smile.

Castiel's eyebrows shot up.

"She may've gotten some of that," he went on, now beginning to move Jane's hair away from her neck, "but I'd wager she was pulling in most of it from her brothers. Siblings tend to-" But he was abruptly cut off as Jane's eyes snapped open and her hands shot out, gripping him around the neck, and though she was shaking, Castiel could tell it was due to a focused fury versus pain - and most certainly not from nervousness. Andrew remained calm, setting the box to his side. "Janey," he choked out.

Castiel had heard what had happened earlier in the hallway - yes, the harsh words that were exchanged, but most intensely he'd heard Dean's punch, heard the snaps of his bones just as Sam had, heard his considerable pain. So it was somewhat alarming to see how effective Jane's grip was on Andrew now. His neck was getting red and her knuckles were going white. Castiel moved to grab her arms, but Andrew held up a hand, shook his head as well as he could. He wasn't making a move to stop her, instead looking right into Jane's eyes.

"You don't get to call me that anymore," she said through grit teeth, her eyes narrowing. Then she winced, closing her eyes, her head involuntarily tilting and a shiver passing over her. She regrouped almost immediately, though her grip had apparently been impacted as Andrew spoke again, this time with less strain.

"Let me fix it."

Her eyes opened, once more glaring at him.

Castiel slowly edged away, still prepared to intervene if needed, but not wanting to get in the way. For now.

"What did you _do?_ " Jane asked in a guttural voice, her eyes dilating even more, though it didn't seem that could've been possible.

"What I've always done. I am keeping you alive," Andrew said.

Castiel could hear a slight tremor entering his voice and his eyes were pleading with her to believe him. Jane's eyes began to fill with tears, her face - and apparently her will - beginning to falter. She degenerated into a sobbing heap, her hands falling away from his neck to his shoulders. Her own shoulders fell forward as she started to double over.

"What did you do to me, why have you done this to me," she managed through her weeping and gulping.

"Let me fix it," Andrew repeated in a whisper, bringing his forehead to hers and gently moving her hands from his shoulders. He picked up the box again, setting it on his lap. Sticking an index finger into each side of the inner case, the tiny silver discs adhered to his fingertips.

Jane's sobbing continued, but she remained propped against him as he silently reached up, putting his hands on either side of her face. Castiel watched as, subtly, he placed his fingers behind her ears, and as he let his hands come down, the discs were gone. Andrew kept his forehead against hers and his hands on her face, using his thumbs to wipe her tears away, even though more kept on coming. Jane sniffled, her eyelids growing heavier by the second, the heaving breaths beginning to calm.

After several moments, Castiel said quietly, "I'm going to let them know she's... she's..." The angel didn't want to say _fine_ or _okay_ , because it would only have been fractionally true. Andrew glanced over, gave him a nearly imperceptible nod.

Castiel slowly pushed himself up and was walking to the door when he heard a sharp intake of air from Jane. Looking over his shoulder, he saw she'd sat back against the wall as far as she could, wincing as she'd apparently disturbed her hip. She still looked woozy. And heartbroken. And maybe even slightly afraid of her longtime friend.

Jane pulled Andrew's hands away from her face, and he hadn't fought it, just sat back and continued to stare at her with anguish written all over his face. She shook her head like she was trying to process the situation, looked around the room, bit her lip, trying to fight back the tears and the shaking chin.

"Is it better?" Andrew asked her.

"Is it _better_?" Jane repeated in a cold tone, bringing her eyes back to his. Now she leaned forward a bit, planted both hands on his chest and shoved, though he didn't budge. "IS IT BETTER?!" she yelled, and then the sobs came back again with an increased intensity.

Sensing he was intruding on what should be a private moment, Castiel once again turned and began to move to the door.

"I'm going to give you something to help you rest," he heard Andrew say calmly, heard rustling as Andrew removed something from his bag. And then Castiel froze on the spot, whipping his head around when he heard Jane ask a question in a soft, but decidedly pained tone.

"Where did you take me from?"

Andrew quickly brought a small syringe up to her neck, expertly hitting the jugular on the first try, injecting whatever was inside. Jane almost instantly began to tilt and slide sideways against the wall, her eyes falling shut. Andrew steadied her, guiding her down, keeping a hand behind her head. If he noticed Castiel was still in the room, he didn't let on, just kept his head lowered, carefully adjusting the hem of her skirt so it fell back over her knees, pulling her cardigan across her, smoothing bits of soaked hair out of her face.

Castiel exited the field, finding the brothers sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall across from the bathroom. Sam immediately leapt to his feet, Dean more slowly, still cradling his shattered hand and wrist against his chest. Castiel also noted multiple fractures in both bones of his forearm. Raising an eyebrow at Dean, a silent chastisement for his friend's impulsiveness, Castiel came closer to him, running his hands at a hover over the injuries.

Dean sighed in relief as the pain dissipated, extending his arm at the elbow, slowly moving his wrist in a circular motion and flexing his hand. "Thanks," he said.

Sam was staring at the door while Castiel healed Dean, then looked to him with as much emotion on his face as Andrew had while looking at Jane. Castiel wished he could take Sam's pain away as easily as he could take away Dean's. He'd long ago learned bones and hearts are different that way. "We heard her yell at him before she got quiet," Sam stated.

Castiel nodded. "They'll have a long road ahead of them, I'm afraid."

"I hope she dumps his ass by the side of that road," Dean said, now extending his arm back and forth at the elbow, massaging it with his other hand. "And I'll help her do it."

"I doubt that's an option," Castiel replied. "Jane still has a great deal of healing to do, and it's on a level I cannot manage on my own."

"You can see in now? Crowley said he could, too. And that there wasn't anything, not that would need her to be hooked up to all that crap and shoving pills down her throat her whole life," Dean said.

Castiel tilted his head, signalling for them to move down the hallway, away from the bathroom, before continuing their conversation. "No. At least, nothing obvious at present," Castiel replied once they'd stopped walking.

"What Andrew said - remember? How every time he thought he'd gotten it all under control, something else would fall apart? Maybe there's just not anything acting up right now," Sam suggested.

"Wait, what does 'nothing obvious' mean?" Dean asked.

"It's difficult to say. I can see more clearly, yet there's still this... this subtle vibration." Castiel shook his head. "It could be my eyes - I seem to have been given an 'upgrade', as Andrew put it. I plan to ask him about it once Jane is taken care of."

"Yeah, and speaking of asking ol' Andrew about things, my money's still on him having his hands in her life way before she ever met him," Dean said. His expression began to drift to anger again. He looked at Castiel with an intense expression, asking, "There is no one you know, and I mean I don't care how shady it is or what kind of deal we'd have to make - there's _no one_ you can think of who could help her except for him?"

"Uh, _I_ care what deal we'd have to make," Sam cut in, with a look on his face that clearly denoted he thought Dean was letting his now obvious hatred for Andrew cloud his judgment.

"Oh, that's rich."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know, I haven't ever forgotten your little speech about how if it were you, you'd have let me go gentle into that good night after the trials, it was really touching, got me right in the feels," Dean replied in a nasty tone.

"What's your point?" Sam shot back.

"Just that I guess I'd rather know all my options, maybe have a plan on how _I'm_ gonna save her _ahead_ of time, in case you have an epiphany and decide _she's_ not worth saving, either."

Sam's cheeks flushed and his jaw tightened. " _You_ plan to save her. _You_. The one who's wanted to _not_ believe she's our sister this whole time."

"And, again, _Sam_ \- maybe I'd have been more understanding if I'd had freaking _years_ to process it!" Dean responded, almost yelling at this point.

"Ssshhh!" Castiel whispered with a frown. He quickly walked behind them and placed one hand on each man's back, nudging them further down the hall and around the curved corner.

"How many times do I have to say I'm sorry, huh?" Sam asked Dean, in what he probably thought was whisper.

Castiel sighed, then peeked around the corner to make sure Andrew hadn't exited the bathroom. It was all clear. He turned his attention back to Sam, who was still speaking.

"How many times do I have to save your sorry ass to make up for the _one time_ I was considering that maybe, just _maybe_ , it would've been better for the _world_ if we could learn to live without each other?"

"How many times? Well how many people have you gotten killed every time you decided to get off your moral high horse to save my _sorry ass?_ Count those up, and you got a number to start with. Should keep you busy for awhile."

Jane's ex could stand to learn a thing or two; Dean was an artist at knife-work, always knowing just where to stab and twist.

Sam closed his eyes, swallowed, took a deep breath. Castiel wasn't sure if it was due to hurt or anger, because when Sam looked to his brother again, his expression was neutral. He'd had practice. He'd been cut by Dean before. 

"What I'm trying to say is, if we aren't _here_ , who's going to be there for Jane? She's not even close to being able to look out for herself at this point," Sam said, keeping his tone and his volume impressively even.

Dean stared at Sam for a few moments. "Fine," he responded flatly.

"I'm going to choose to hear that as: _You got a point there, Sammy,_ " Sam commented.

Dean rolled his eyes, then turned to Castiel. Castiel had been trying to mentally sort the events in the bathroom ever since he'd rejoined Dean and Sam. And now that the brothers were done firing verbal rounds at each other, Dean could see it on his face. "Something's bothering you," Dean stated.

"The upshot of all this is that Andrew has invited me to help take care of Jane - address the traumatic injuries, the wings - and we'd apparently be doing so at his lab," said Castiel.

"That's good, right?" Sam asked both of them.

Dean was still eyeing Castiel. "And?"

Castiel again glanced around the corner, lowered his voice even more before he answered. "Jane said something as I was leaving the room. Andrew sedated her almost immediately after she'd spoken, so I don't know exactly what she meant by her question, but she asked him - 'Where did you take me from?'"

Dean and Sam shared as serious a look as Castiel had seen from them.

"What if... maybe.... what if..." Dean began carefully, processing aloud.

Sam geared up for another argument, as he knew Dean was getting ready to spew a bunch of unfounded theories. Go back to trying to pretend Jane wasn't their sister. Trying to take her away. " _Don't_ ," Sam whispered harshly.

"What if he got something from Mom and Dad," Dean continued, ignoring Sam and whispering to just Castiel. "If he got hold of something of theirs, blood samples from their doctors, whatever - is it possible he _made_ her somehow? Just like he's made her... made her into..."

"A prehistoric angel with demon eyes?" Castiel offered. At their simultaneous eyebrow raises, Castiel acknowledged them with a singular word: "Crowley."

Dean rolled his eyes again, but Sam was not amused.

"How many times do you have to hear it - she _is_ our biological sister," Sam said to Dean, a frown forming, his voice raising a bit.

" _Ssshhh!_ " Dean said, returning the frown. Then he looked back to Castiel. "So could he?"

Castiel was deep in thought for a few moments before he replied. "You know as well as I do - all manner of things are possible."

Dean looked at Sam almost smugly.

" _But_ ," Castiel went on, getting Dean's attention once more. "I do know that Sam is factually correct in his statement - I compared her blood to yours myself. She is a product of John Winchester and Mary Campbell, just like the two of you-"

It was Sam's turn to look smug.

"-though what she said seems to indicate she believes he _removed_ her from somewhere."

"Like from our grandmother? I mean, we're all but positive she was with Dad's mom at some point before she was adopted," Sam said.

Castiel shook his head. "I don't believe so. This was more... vague. And Jane was upset, yes, but nothing else she said to him belied she was anything other than clearheaded once Andrew was able to hinder the things overwhelming her mind. She wanted to hear what _he_ did to her, why _he'd_ done it - specific. Not a feeling. She _knows_ he's responsible."

"So?" said Dean.

"So, it's logical to assume she would have simply asked - Why did you take me from my family? But that last question... the way she said it... _that_ seemed based on a feeling, not knowledge."

They kept quiet, all looking at each other for a few moments.

"And you said he drugged her right away?" Dean asked, and at Castiel's nod, he said, "Well, there's our answer. That he didn't want to _have_ to answer for it, not to her or to you."

Sam crossed his arms, eyes downcast, doing his own deep thinking, but at their silence brought his eyes back to them.

Dean stared. "Do we have to drag it out of you?"

Sam took a beat or two, hesitant, but ultimately asked, "Can we get Mom's medical records?"

"Azazel destroyed all that stuff-" Dean began, but Sam cut him off.

"Shut up a second," Sam said irritably, then looked solely at Castiel. "Can we go _get_ Mom's records?"

A slight frown from Castiel. "Sam, what are you saying?"

Another beat of silence.

"I want to know for sure that Mom had a baby between me and Dean ---"

Dean's eyebrows shot up.

"--- because whether it was just Dad who gave Jane up, or whether it was Mom _and_ Dad ---"

"You are driving me _crazy_ ," Dean hissed. "I have _told you_ , Mom would _never --_ -"

"Don't start, Dean. Don't start with the 'Mom would nevers'. I _know_ the woman now, and to say we had rose-colored glasses on doesn't even _begin_ to ---"

"You know her better than me, huh? So I'll ask you, _again_ , why didn't Mom ask where Jane was when she came back? You got an answer for _that_ , because her memory getting wiped is pretty conve---"

"She didn't remember haunting the house! She also didn't remember meeting you, meeting us, back when---"

"Yeah! Because her brain got squeegee'd, so that---"

"Oh, oh, okay, so memory wiping is just fine in _your_ arguments, but not---"

"Because I'm not _guessing_ , you dumbass! We _know_ that's what---"

" _Enough!_ " Castiel commanded.

They were angry, but they stopped. At least for the time being. The angel looked at Sam, motioned for him to speak.

"I'm trying to say - maybe we had this all wrong. Thinking that Mom got zapped and Dad gave Jane up because she was sick. Maybe _neither_ of them would've bothered to talk to us about her because for all they knew, she was dead."

Dean actually seemed to be considering Sam's theory. "Like... she was a sickly kid and Andrew faked her death?"

"That's not exactly something you'd break down to your other children until they were old enough, and why would Mom have brought up something that painful to us out of the blue when she came back? She had enough trouble communicating with us as it was, it just wouldn't make sense," Sam continued.

Castiel and Dean were quiet, though Castiel in particular kept a serious focus on Sam.

"Dad wasn't exactly the open type, that's why it didn't surprise me in the least that he'd never brought up a daughter to us. And it wasn't just that he never brought up Adam," Sam slipped in, looking pointedly at Dean to prevent any comeback before he went on. "The man hated to lose at anything - the war, a game of pool, a car that was beyond fixable, not finding what he was hunting - he would've considered Jane's death as failing her. Failing Mom, failing all of us."

"Sam, let me make sure I'm hearing you," Castiel said. "You are positing that Andrew let your parents believe their daughter had died so that he could... raise her himself?"

Sam huffed. "I don't know, maybe he made her forget ---"

"Oh, jeez, with the brain bleaching again," Dean interrupted, continuing to hover near the end of his proverbial rope.

Sam opened his mouth, gearing up for a comeback but Castiel preemptively hushed him with a _look_ , followed by one to Dean for good measure.

Dean took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then spoke. "I see your point about Mom's medical records."

"Say again?" Sam asked, astonishment tinging his words.

"Because I get wanting to have something solid, something that _we_ can find and put our hands on and not rely on other people ---" Dean glanced over "--- no offense, Cas."

"None taken."

"It's frustrating as hell, other people telling us what to take as fact and us having no choice but to trust it. So I want you to hear me on something, Sam. I mean, really _hear me._ "

"Okay," Sam said in a gentler tone. "I will."

"I have memories from back then that are clear as a bell. Especially around the time you were born. Especially the night Mom died. Did I ever tell you I woke up at one point in the night? Stood at my door, saw Mom in your nursery, standing there rocking you. I can still see that white gown moving around her legs. I can still hear her humming the Beatles."

A small, sad smile came to Sam's lips.

"And she shooed me back to bed. And now that we... since we know what happened, well, she probably saved my life and didn't even know it. I could've been awake, maybe even in the nursery when Azazel showed up. I was little, yeah. But that's the stuff that stays with you. That's the free pass I've been trying to earn my whole damn life."

Sam's face was awash in sympathy, and it looked like it physically pained Dean to say the rest.

"There was no girl around my age living with us. There was no girl in my room, and that's the only place she coulda been in that cramped house. There was one bed and a bunch of Legos and army men and dirty socks, but no Jane."

Sam looked to his feet, and Dean's expression softened.

"It's why I've been... why I've been so back-and-forth. I was telling myself all sorts of things. Maybe she was staying with a relative. Maybe she was at boarding school ---"

"On Dad's salary?" Sam cut in, looking back up.

Dean huffed. "Dammit, _listen_ , I was trying to make it work in my head! Then she had that locket, and she smiles like Mom and frowns like Dad, and then the blood tests. But her whole life is a lie. And mine's not - and she has never been in it. I'm sorry. I wish she had been. She just wasn't."

Sam was quiet for a moment, then began to ramble. "Maybe Millie got some sort of payout from the Men of Letters after they thought Henry got killed, and Jane was with her because Millie could afford to pay for her treatment, and ---"

" _Sam!"_ Dean exclaimed, exasperated.

Moisture sprang to Sam's eyes, and he turned slightly away.

"Right now, we cannot determine _what_ is plausible given the information we have at present," Castiel said, finally sharing his thoughts. "You are both letting your minds run wild." He looked directly at Sam in quite the stern manner, waiting til he had the man's undivided attention to finish. "And I implore you not to try what I believe you to be considering."

Dean looked from Castiel to Sam and back. "You wanna share with the rest of the class?"

Castiel continued to look at Sam. "Reaching out to another angel to convince them to go back - or send _you_ back - in time would be a very bad mistake. One that would possibly be irreparable."

Sam's expression hardened. "Reaching out to _another_ angel. Meaning you wouldn't even think about it."

"No, I would not."

"Even if we find out he kidnapped her from Mom and Dad."

"Sam, I beg you to wait until things are calmer. _Both_ of you," he emphasized, looking at the two of them now. "We simply _do not have_ enough information."

Castiel had clearly grown frustrated, beginning to walk away before they'd technically ended the conversation. But he turned around, and the way he spoke to them made Dean flash back to when they were first getting to know each other. So stoic it was almost cold.

"Focus on the truth in front of you. That you have a responsibility to help this woman as you would any other target of the unknown. She is most assuredly in dire need of your assistance. Of _my_ assistance. I think of her as one of my charges, so if it's helpful for you to think of her as a sister in that regard? Then do it. Stop speculating. Get busy finding some actual _facts_. And enough with this childish arguing. Nut the hell up."

And with that, the angel returned to the showers.

Sam and Dean were quiet, gaping and blinking at Castiel's... Edict? Advice? Hard to say.

"You know, his tough talk doesn't quite have the same effect when he's buttoned up all cozy in your flannel," Dean commented dryly.

Sam shot him a _look_ , but the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. "He's right, though," Sam admitted. "There's just too much we don't know."

"Yeah," agreed Dean. "We should start a list."

They slowly began to round the corner, headed back down the hallway.

"Only facts, though, so Cas doesn't ground us," Sam replied, his tone finally lightening.

"Oh, definitely just the facts, ma'am."

"Well, what's on our docket?"

"So, what, we got Andrew - he seems to be a T-1000, according to my hand; there's the douchebag and whoever his puppet master is; there's mecha-Jane; did we ever decide what the deal was with the wannabe nightgaunts?"

Sam shook his head. "Nope."

"We ain't exactly winning the hunters of the year award," Dean said, then sighed, coming to a stop and leaning a shoulder against the wall. "Where do you wanna start?"

"You should start by checking on your friend."

Dean straightened up and Sam whirled around. Andrew was standing outside the bathroom doorway, looking casual as could be, hands in his pockets. The knees of his pants were damp from where he'd knelt by Jane. Otherwise not a hair nor a stitch was out of place, he was calm and collected and by all accounts, not a bit ashamed for eavesdropping.

"Our friend?" Sam repeated.

"Castiel and I are about to move Jane to my lab so that we ---"

"Then we're coming, too," Dean interrupted, in the deep octave he reserved for special no-win confrontations such as this one.

Andrew attempted to stare him down; Dean didn't give an inch, so Andrew focused on Sam. "I don't know at this point how long it will take to get everything sorted." He looked back at Dean. "But I _will_ get it sorted. I _am_ her physician, and her friend. I am not affiliated with a robot collective and have no mission to take out the human race."

Dean glared.

Now back to both of them, Andrew said, "You will be welcome anytime you like, to be with her while she recovers. You'll have full access and I'll walk you through how to get there. In the meantime, I suggest you go to room 17."

Andrew turned and squatted, grabbing the pieces of whatever had been masquerading as a pager from either side of the door frame, then walked back into the bathroom. And by the time Sam and Dean had walked the short distance to the doorway, the field had vanished and the room was empty, all three gone without even the first hint as to their whereabouts.

Dean balled up his fist and hit the wall, cracking the plaster and leaving a dent.

" _Seriously?!_ " Sam said, looking at Dean, absolutely annoyed.

Dean frowned, shook out his formerly newly-repaired hand, and asked, "What the hell was he talking about, our 'friend'?"

Sam just looked around generically, holding up his arms, conveying he'd given up trying to answer for all the weirdness of the night. He turned away without a verbal reply, heading back down the hall.

"Roger that," Dean muttered to himself, following behind.

He joined Sam in shock and surprise upon opening the door.

" _Mose?!_ " they exclaimed in unison.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's Note: What will now be Chapters Ten & Eleven were originally published as one chapter ten in late December 2016. Backtracked and split things up, per reader feedback! The chapter called "Postcards From The Edge" just *can't* be split due to the way it is laid out or it would ruin the flow. Plan to limit all chapters to the 10-12K range max in the future. Thanks so much for reading. -Nash]
> 
> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	11. The Facts Were These (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head upon the return to the bunker - Jane's condition takes a turn; Sam and Dean confront Andrew - and each other; Castiel faces many new truths; Mose arrives mysteriously; Crowley reveals the beginnings of a long-kept personal secret

* * *

  _"To define is to limit."_  
_— Oscar Wilde, author: The Picture of Dorian Gray_

* * *

.

Mose was sitting up, still groggy when he looked in the direction of the sound of a door opening.

The sound of a door opening.

 _The sound of a door opening_.

He immediately put his hands to his ears, feeling with his fingers - the hearing aids were gone. Glancing around, he looked on the pillow, under it, lifted the covers, then his eyes lit on the bedside table. There they were, side-by-side.

"Mose?" Dean tried, since their exclamation seemingly had no effect.

And now their oldest friend looked up with a bright smile, saying, "I can't hear anything!"

Sam and Dean looked at each other, then back to him.

"NOTHING?" Dean asked, and way too loudly.

"Easy, cowboy," Mose said with a chuckle. "I meant - _you_ know." He made a swirling gesture near one of his ears, widened his eyes for emphasis.

"The chatter?" Sam clarified.

Mose nodded, amazement written all over his face as he spoke excitedly. "I woke up, heard the click of the handle, the hinges on the door, someone's left shoe is wearing out faster than their right, somebody has some joint popping going on-"

Sam began to smile. Not their typical borderline-apathetic Mose. It was nice to see him worked up about something, despite the unusual circumstances.

"-one of you is gonna need a toilet and some matches in a serious way in about an hour, and-"

"Whoa, man, just hang on," Dean said. He walked over, sat near the foot of the bed, gave his old friend a quick once-over while he was at it. "First of all - hi. Long time, no see."

Mose chuckled again. " _Hi_ ," he replied, and then to Sam, "Nice to see you, too, Sammy. Hey, what time is it?"

Sam glanced at his watch. "A little past midnight."

Mose shrugged. "Well, whatever happened, I'd have been here by now anyway."

Sam raised his eyebrows, as Mose seemed totally indifferent about waking up in a strange place without explanation and seeing them walk through the door. On the other hand, stranger things _had_ happened. This probably didn't even break his top ten.

"Lookit, I'm glad to see you and all, but - _why_ are you _here?_ " Dean asked.

" _How_ are you here?" added Sam.

"Well, the 'why' is because you asked," began Mose, resulting in slightly confused expressions from both brothers. "And as for the 'how' - you got me. Last thing I remember was around two hours ago."

.

* * *

.

AROUND TWO HOURS AGO 

Mose had made good time. He would be hitting closer to ten hours than eleven or twelve in his drive from Michigan to Lawrence, thanks to a heavy dose of speeding, fast food, and some lightning-quick gas station stops. Even with gaining an hour due to time zones, Mose was more than pleased with his progress.

Because he had a detour planned.

He had already passed through Kansas City and had eased his lead foot for the moment, cruising down an empty, nondescript westward route. He sipped on the coffee he'd gotten several miles back when he filled the tank. It was already growing cold in its cheap cup, but he needed the caffeine, so down it went. Mose glanced at the time, debating on calling Sam or Dean, when he saw it.

The horizon was beginning to glow. Mose cringed as a subtle pitch began to hit his ears. His headlights looked at if he'd put on the high beams, and then began to flicker. The radio started flipping through stations on its own, followed by his phone ringing and vibrating before it totally shut down. And now, to his horror, the engine revved and the car shot forward.

The steering wheel paid no attention to Mose's jerks, weaving to and fro along the road. The pitch grew louder, painfully sharp, and the light ahead was either getting closer, or the car was determined to run him right into it - maybe both. It looked like an aurora, and as was typical when Mose was hit with pitches in that range, the colors swirled in shades of turquoise and emerald.

"Ah!" he yelped, letting loose of the wheel - as if it mattered, anyway - and gripping his ears. Thankfully the car started to stall, except it was careening to his right versus the green separating the two sides of the route to his left. And all that awaited was a dive down into a wooded area.

But Mose wasn't paying attention. The rippling wave of light had made him nauseous - it had always been so when it came to the synesthesia. The noise terrorizing his head had split into several octaves that felt like they were swirling inside his skull, ricocheting off his eardrums, his brain, everything. He felt his eyes cross as he got woozy; it had been quite some time since sound triggered a seizure, but despite his state, he knew that's exactly what was coming.

Mose felt like he was on the periphery of his own body. He barely felt the rough yank of the seatbelt as the car went over the side, hardly noticed the airbag that burst forward, scraping his face and busting his lip as the front end of the car was stopped by a small tree. And he was almost unconscious, but he heard what sounded like the driver's side door being torn from the body of the car. Felt the pressure from the airbag and the seatbelt disappear. Could've sworn he was being lifted out and up as easily as if he were a baby.

One more tone now, a low one that replaced those high octaves, painting the back of his eyelids with a foggy gray, rattling his bones.

And then...

.

* * *

.

"...next thing I know, here I am."

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

When they didn't speak right away, Mose ran a finger over his lower lip - which, oddly, wasn't painful in the least - and asked, "How's my face, by the way?"

Dean chuckled. "Not a scratch, same old mug you've always been stuck with."

A satisfied grin came to Mose's face and he responded with a quick wink.

"You could've gotten on the interstate and hit closer to here - so why were you on that road?" asked Sam.

He was trying to re-focus the conversation with his question, even though he suspected he already knew the answer - and he could tell by the look on Dean's face that his brother was thinking along the same lines.

Mose sighed as he replied, giving himself a brief internal talking-to about not calling them before he even got on the plane. "After I got Dean's email-"

"Yeah, about that," Dean said. "I didn't email you."

"Neither did I," added Sam.

A small frown came to Mose's brow. "I can show you on my..." He trailed off for a moment as he looked around again. "Well, I _coulda_ shown you on my phone, but it looks like my good Samaritan didn't grab it. I swear, Dean, it was from your address. The _real_ one."

Dean's expression was already shifting into attack mode. "I got a pretty good idea who asked you here. And I also bet he's your Samaritan. Not-so-good, by the way."

"Wait, back up," said Sam, walking closer to them. "Listen, this is going to sound crazy, but - did you happen to be stopping in a town called Hunter on your way here?"

Mose's eyebrows shot up. "Okay, so, I knew your intuition was off the charts for awhile there, but damn, that's impressive."

Dean closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face, exhaled loudly, then looked up at Sam, shaking his head in both annoyance and disbelief as he said, "Seriously!? How much of our lives has he invaded? Who else is gonna show up here, third cousins twice removed? Your old college roommate's sister's boyfriend's great uncle on his dad's side? I mean, what the hell?"

"So this dude's trouble?" Mose summed up.

Dean gave him a flat _look_. "Oh. _Ohhh._ "

Mose nodded in understanding - they'd rarely needed things clearly spelled-out in their friendship. "I feel you," he responded simply.

"The chapel?" Sam prompted, not bothering to construct an actual question.

"One of my more reliable callers mentioned a lot of strange activity was happening in Hunter, I didn't think much of it, til my intern told me one of the fringier callers - you know, might need a straitjacket, but has a good track record?"

Sam and Dean nodded.

"He got all hyped up, started really pushing this church in Kansas."

"And you made the connection," Dean finished.

"You know me. Dog with a bone. Thought maybe that was why the invite - that joint's had a hellish run of bad luck and it's a hop-skip from here. If it was kicking up again with the weird energy, well... Kinda my thing."

Sam went into his head, turning over all the information Mose had provided, so the newest addition to the bunker's ever-growing gifted menagerie turned to Dean.

"I'm thirsty."

Dean knew what he meant, and it wasn't water. "C'mon," Dean said, rising from the bed.

Mose double-checked under the covers before he stood, and at Dean's _look_ , he said, "Just didn't know how thorough that no-good Samaritan was."

When he rose, he was still in his dark denim. The only clothing removed seemed to be his sweater and his shoes, both of which were laying nearby. Mose pulled on the sweater, then sat on the desk chair as he reached for his shoes.

Sam came out of his over-thinking daze when he noticed Mose tying the laces, asking, "We going somewhere?"

"It's way past refreshment time," Dean informed him as he went out the door with Mose.

And for the first time since he was a child, Mose walked away with no hearing aids in his ears or in his pockets. Questions over his method of arrival could wait. Questions over why being in this place was rescuing him from the ever-present torment flooding his ears could, too.

Right now, he was safe. Right now, he was at peace. Right now, he was going to celebrate.

.

* * *

 .

Castiel and Andrew had lifted Jane together, both supporting her so that the lower half of her body was disturbed as minimally as possible.

"This might feel odd," Andrew had warned, but before the end of the sentence even reached Castiel's ears, there they were in the location that had evaded him for weeks.

"It didn't feel odd," Castiel commented absently, glancing at his surroundings as they slowly brought Jane over to and laid her down on what looked just like an ordinary stretcher from the ER, excepting the all-over off-white coloring of every part, including the frame, modest mattress, and linens atop it.

The entirety of the lab was that slightly pearlescent, off-white tone, from the walls to the flooring, the various workstations around the room, even the counter tops and the cabinetry. There were no knobs on any of the drawers or cabinets, nor any hinges that he could observe. There were shallow transparent trays - they appeared acrylic, but he assumed they likely weren't - three of them, to be exact, lying in a row atop a long rectangular island that sat in the middle of the room. The stretcher was just to the side of it.

It was a large, square room. Two walls contained the cabinetry, which met at a corner, one filled up entirely above and below a counter top, and the other, with taller, locker-like cabinets, stopping short due to the presence of two arches made of curved, stone-like squares. From that corner, going down its adjacent wall, another two identical arches, with a larger one - nearly double the size - in between. The rest of that wall had a staircase running against it, easily twenty steps, leading to a landing, beyond which Castiel couldn't see. And none of the arches seemed to serve any function - they certainly didn't _lead_ anywhere, as the curve was outlining nothing but the wall, not a space or a door to be found. It was as if someone had constructed them _against_ the walls, like some sort of unusual decorative accent that was out-of-place in the clinical atmosphere.

Castiel noted no light source, rather the ceiling simply put off a glow, which was brighter over Jane. Extending from the ceiling, both above the island and on the other side of the stretcher, were large rectangular screens of the same clear material as the trays. The only things that weren't clear or off-white were the staircase's railing, and a row of instruments, some of them quite odd-looking, on a tray table near the stretcher. They were the same unshined, buffed metallic as the instruments used on Castiel at the chapel, though their hue was not as gray. And if he wasn't mistaken, if he wasn't imagining - they were of the same material as angel blades.

Castiel found himself staring at the instruments uneasily, but his stare broke when a woman's voice began to speak, coming from nowhere and everywhere.

"Scan complete, generating views now."

Castiel turned in a full circle, trying to get a bead on the source of the voice, hesitant to move from his spot at the foot of the stretcher. Andrew had walked to one of the taller cabinets, which opened as he approached. He pulled out two garments and walked back, the cabinet closing itself as he did so.

"Excellent," he said, handing one of the garments to Castiel.

The angel watched as Andrew pulled on what turned out to be a long-sleeved jacket of sorts, bringing one side up and under the other, securing it on what Castiel presumed was a hidden button. It had a single button at the opposite shoulder, to which Andrew fastened the unsecured side, then used the fabric belt attached at the waist to secure it, wrapping it twice before knotting it at the back. Finished, Andrew looked to his visitor.

Castiel looked back at him, still unmoved.

Andrew raised an eyebrow, then walked around the stretcher and started to outfit Castiel in the same manner as himself, saying, "Castiel, meet my assistant. This is The B.E.T.T.Y."

"Hello, Castiel," said the disembodied voice.

"H-hello," Castiel replied, raising his arms a bit as Andrew weaved the belt around him and tied it off. "Betty, you said?"

"I was once The Basic Educational Tutorials and Testing for Youth. B-E-T-T-Y. I have been re-purposed to assist with Andrew's needs. It was unnecessary to alter my label for functionality."

Castiel nodded his head as if none of this was weird.

_It was so very weird._

He snapped back to attention when he noticed Andrew trying to catch his eye.

"Let's take care of that hip so we can see what we're dealing with on the wing front. Sound like a plan?" he asked.

"Mmm," Castiel managed, briefly putting aside his curiosity as to why his input mattered and, thinking in terms of the newest addition to his attire, added, "Should I be putting on gloves?"

"Do or don't. There's nothing here - including us - that can infect her. But if you'd like them, The B.E.T.T.Y. can whip some up."

And suddenly in one of the trays, there was a box of gloves.

"They are your size," the voice informed him.

"If they aren't necessary-" began Castiel, but the box had already dissolved away.

Andrew was beginning to cut away Jane's ripped and bloodied cardigan with a pair of long metallic shears, so Castiel followed his lead and began gently removing her boots.

"If infection isn't a worry, then why this protective layer?" he asked, and Andrew shrugged.

"This will get a little messy. Your coat already got trashed. Didn't want you to go and ruin that shirt."

Castiel paused in his action, opened his mouth and closed it again, ultimately saying, "This isn't my shirt. I don't typically wear..."

Andrew had moved around the stretcher, sliding the shears up the cardigan's other sleeve. He paused at the trailing off, looked over his shoulder.

In a very serious tone, and with an equally serious expression, Castiel repeated, "This is not my shirt."

Andrew smiled, resumed cutting, and replied, "I judge a man by his questions, rather than the plaid he is forced to wear."

They worked quietly for some time, Castiel going on to do the bulk of Jane's clothing removal and covering her with warmed blankets as he went - courtesy of The B.E.T.T.Y. - while Andrew moved to the side, standing stiffly with crossed arms, looking over the various images coming up on the now more opaque display closest to Jane. He would occasionally reach up and swipe, ask his assistant to put some side-by-side for comparison, then stand back and think more.

"And show me a posterior view again?" Andrew said.

"I believe it is slightly more anterior," The B.E.T.T.Y. responded, tweaking the currently enlarged view of Jane's pelvis.

Andrew nodded. "Yep. There we go." He looked over at Castiel, motioned for him to come closer.

It was similar to computer programs he'd seen before, whether from advanced medical software or more fantastical versions coming out of the minds of Hollywood, essentially just a skeleton made up of wire-like lines and curves. On some of the zoomed-in views, the parts took on the appearance of solid bone, albeit with barely-there cross-hatching. And this element was unlike anything Castiel had _ever_ seen before.

He wondered why Andrew just didn't look inside of her. Or why he didn't run his hands over her and simply _fix_ her. Why all the seemingly extra steps, as if he were combining man's procedures with the advanced methodology of the angels.

"See, here," Andrew was saying, pointing as he explained. "The iliac spine snapped when she fell. How far do you think it was?"

"Fifteen feet, perhaps?"

"Decent amount of force. And concentrated in one area. What I wanted to tell you, about the bones - they'd started healing before the entirety of the impact was over."

"Not that I dispute her ability to heal, but I don't understand - she was unconscious."

"It's an autonomic response, like breathing or circulation."

Castiel eyed him. "She was limping as time went by."

"There was lots to heal. It's just like in the trauma bay, Cas. If the patient's losing their blood supply, not much point in bothering with the rest until that gets squared away. The part that was throwing you off earlier is here."

Andrew pointed to the various pelvic fractures, explaining how pieces of sheared bone and torn cartilage had regrouped, fusing to each other, pulling the leg that had dislocated completely from the hip back into its place, the fragments re-purposed as makeshift supports. It served to let her leg function close to how it should've. That is, before it suddenly _couldn't_.

"Bit of a shotgun approach, but it let her get up. Conserved a lot of energy, too," Andrew finished.

"Is that why you aren't just healing it all, right now?"

A quizzical expression came across Andrew's face. "Why am I not just taking an angelic approach?" he asked.

Castiel nodded.

"How long do you all think your healing lasts?"

The question caught Castiel off-guard, but his answer was immediate, the conviction of millennia of experience behind it. "Permanently. Of course, unless the human injures themselves again. And again. And again... I'm thinking of Dean and Sam. Specifically."

Andrew nodded. "Right. Sure. Well, the way I was taught-"

 _He was taught?_ thought Castiel.

"-it may mean more of all this on the front end. But they'll learn."

"They?"

"The bones, the tissues, all the way down to the cellular structures. They'll learn how to regenerate and re-arrange and re-purpose on their own. And the more that happens, the less energy gets drained. In that respect - well, angels are taking a bit of that shotgun approach, too."

Castiel mulled this over as he looked from the monitor to the sleeping Jane, and back again. "She didn't consciously prioritize it?" he asked slowly.

"Not all of it. Eschewing the fine-tuning was a choice."

"Could you tell... did she use the shotgun on me?"

Andrew fought off a smile at Castiel's wording, but he knew what the angel meant. "At first glance? No. Looks like you got the deluxe package."

Castiel looked at Andrew very seriously when he asked, "Did she choose me over herself?"

Andrew considered how to answer this for a moment, kept his gaze steady when he confirmed Castiel's instinct. "Yes."

Castiel blinked a few times, then looked to Jane. "I don't know how I'll ever repay her," he commented softly. "I suppose this, helping you, is a start. It just doesn't seem like enough."

"Be her friend," Andrew replied, and sadness crept into his voice. "She's, ah... she's really going to need her family around her when all's said and done."

Castiel looked at him again, but didn't respond.

Andrew took a deep breath in-and-out, and moved several steps away, grabbing the corner of the wheeled tray table, pulling it to the head of the bed. Gently, he moved Jane's right arm from under the blanket. Bringing it up and over, he laid it near the head of the stretcher.

"How we doing on temp?"

"Stable," The B.E.T.T.Y. answered.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Castiel asked abruptly.

"Because I hope that if I give you the knowledge you seek, you won't feel the need to search for it elsewhere," Andrew calmly replied without looking up, organizing the supplies in the order he'd need them.

Castiel remained quiet, thinking on how best to get back the extra blood he'd drawn - the blood he now considered he'd _stolen_ from Jane - before Crowley handed it off.

"If you could hold her arm steady, keep her wrist bent at this angle?"

Castiel went to the head of the bed and picked up Jane's arm, positioning it as had been demonstrated. Andrew picked up one of the long, slender, metallic hollow tubes from the tray. One end of the tube narrowed slightly and had sharper edges and angled bevels around the circumference.

Another deep breath from the doctor.

"Just hold her steady."

.

* * *

.

Dean and Mose were sitting at the war room table, howling in laughter.

Sam had begrudgingly agreed to fetch snacks for them, but in truth he was glad Dean was actually going to get something on his stomach. The Johnny Walker came and went in a flash, the empty bottle sitting abandoned at one end of the table. Closer to Dean and Mose was a bottle of Jack Daniels - and not the one they'd shared with Jane that first night she'd stayed with them. Sam had no idea where this bigger, nearly full bottle had come from.

That is, _formerly_ nearly-full. Sam frowned while setting the food down, noting it had hit the half-way mark and Dean was pouring himself another while Mose was still nursing the same one he'd been on for the past fifteen minutes. Sam had joined them in their first drink, but had switched to water while they carried on. He'd brought water for them when he'd gotten his own, but it had sat for over an hour, untouched.

"C'mon, Sammy!" Dean bellowed in his drunk voice. He leaned up, nearly toppling his chair over as he stretched his arm across the table, grabbing the empty glass in front of Sam. "Your tank's running on fumes, time to fill 'er up!"

Dean uncapped the whiskey and started to pour, but Sam tried to stop him. "Dean, I'm fine."

More pouring.

"Really. I don't want anymore."

Dean stopped, the glass not quite half full, and looked over to Sam. He narrowed his already half-mast eyes. "Will you look at that sourpuss," he said to Mose, who softly chuckled and took a sip from his glass. Dean shrugged, telling Sam, "Suit yourself. More for me." And he threw back Sam's glass, gulping every bit down.

Sam wasn't even bothering to hide his annoyance at this point.

" _Whhhaaaaatt?_ " Dean questioned, then rolled his eyes without waiting for - or caring about - an answer. He turned Sam's glass over on the table as if it were an empty shot, as if this was some sort of drinking contest at a dive bar. He moved on to filling his own glass once more.

"Just... can you just ease up, please? Andrew or Cas could be coming to get us any second, and-"

"Pfft," Dean scoffed. "Yeah, right. Like we can trust a damn thing that freak says."

Sam took offense. "That 'freak' is working to save Jane's life. We don't have to like him, but we sure as hell don't need to be antagonistic."

"'Antagonistic'," Dean repeated to Mose in a haughty tone, punctuating his facetiousness by raising a pinky as he took another large gulp of whiskey. "We've pulled out our big boy words."

Mose chuckled again, saying, "Now I _really_ feel like I'm back home. It ain't a get-together unless the Winchester boys are duking it out."

Sam was disappointed in Dean, to be sure, but he was also disappointed in Mose. They'd told him about the situation with Jane earlier, and he'd given Sam more than a little side-eye when Dean reported on the length of time he'd kept knowledge of her to himself, of course leaving out the circumstances of that summer and its aftermath. Then Mose was so casual when he told them he didn't remember Jane, either - they were the only kids jumping out of the Impala when John came to see Missouri. And Dean didn't even ask Mose any follow-up questions. Sam thought of plenty, starting with Missouri herself - and the chance that Patience could reach out to her grandmother. A long shot, and a big favor to ask, but given the circumstances it seemed a shorter reach than most.

Though Missouri and Mose had been estranged for years, neither Sam nor Dean ever pried as to why, even after her death. But family was still family. Patience must've known of Mose, and even if she were upset over her cousin's and grandmother's falling-out, it would only take a phone call to set things right, Sam _had_ to believe that.

Sam didn't remember Missouri from his childhood, though he'd learned enough since. The woman's skills were so honed, one only had to be marginally in her presence for her to pick up on what seemed like their whole lives. If _anyone_ would've remembered Jane, or sensed that something was missing, it would've been her - Sam had to believe _that_ , too. And as he knew well from more recent times, she'd still had the gift in spades, so perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that he'd stayed back at the bunker during the wraith case. She'd have known he had something he was hiding, probably would've come out and said so, but he was far from ready at the time to bring Jane up. Not with his brain so full of the loss of Castiel, and the addition of Jack.... and, always, Dean. Maybe he should've gone to see Missouri, allowed her to read him, to carry some of the burden; maybe it would've gotten her killed sooner.

But Sam wasn't the only one whose recall of time spent at the Moseley home felt out-of-reach. It hadn't even clicked with Dean initially, that day almost two decades prior, seeing her last name in the phone book. Sam certainly hadn't made any connection with Mose's name. Dean had been closer to Mose from the jump, kept up with him more over the years - especially as adults, when Sam had gone to try and forge his own path. It was many years and many hunts and many drinks before Dean casually mentioned he'd asked Mose to look in on Sam if his work ever took him near Stanford.

 _"Wait, wait. Missouri Moseley?"_ Dean had said that day, before they'd gone to see her and taken her to their former home.

Something about the way he'd said it, the way he then went on to comment he'd always thought John was referring to the state and not a person, had nagged at Sam. He hadn't been around Dean much for years at that point, so he was unsure that what he was hearing was a lie. And it wasn't, not truly - he'd come to learn that tone well, the tone of his older brother's uncertainty, when Dean didn't want to admit he'd come upon something he couldn't work out for himself. Now here Mose was, not exactly egging Dean on, but not stopping him, either. Sam was so sick of being the parent in their relationship, he could scream. It would've been nice to drown his sorrow, too. But somebody had to stay lucid.

It must have been written all over him, because Dean cranked up the vitriol as he looked over to Sam again. "Do you want to cry and hug it out? Or talk about all the things we've already gone over? What, Sam? What is it that you want? How can we make _you_ feel better?"

Sam crossed his arms, stone-faced.

"Typical," Dean said under his breath, raising his glass again, when Mose suddenly jerked forward out of his leaned-back posture, setting his glass down on the table abruptly, sloshing some of his drink onto the table.

"Mmmph," he muttered, frowning as he dropped his head, sticking his index fingers into his ears, wiggling them a bit.

"What?" asked Dean.

"That kind've rumbly pitch, the gray one, from after I crashed." Mose removed his fingers and raised his head again. "It's close. I mean _real_ close, like - like it's coming from in this building somehow."

"Where? Can you tell?" asked Sam.

Mose cringed. "Ooomph, that echo lasts too long." He blinked purposefully several times, as if trying to shoo the aura away, before continuing. "I can't get a feel of it. Below... back that way, maybe?" He pointed to the hallway entrance just off of the war room.

And on cue, there stood Andrew, who looked at each of them, then walked to Mose and extended his hand. "Mr. Moseley. Glad to see you're up and about. I'm Andrew."

Mose - though visibly wary - took and shook the offered hand.

Andrew pulled a phone from his pocket and set in on the table in front of Mose as he continued. "It was damaged a bit in the crash, I took the liberty of having my assistant repair it-"

"He does that," Dean interjected with full-on snark, which Andrew ignored.

"-and I believe you'll find your baggage all accounted for, just outside your room."

"My room?" Mose repeated.

Andrew looked to Dean and Sam. "I assume your friend is welcome to stay as long as he likes?"

"You mean as long as _you_ need him, for whatever it is you need him _for?_ " Dean asked.

Andrew stared at Dean for a beat or two and then, not acknowledging the question, said, "Jane can have visitors now, if you'd like to follow me." Almost like a bellhop or a waiter, Andrew gestured behind him to the hallway entry.

"You're... we're not just going to..." Sam asked, trailing off with a raise of his eyebrows.

Andrew shook his head. "No. Like I said, I'll show you the way. You won't need Cas or myself to get to her; you can just go."

That was all Sam needed to hear, and he stood immediately; Dean didn't move, merely turned his eyes downward, gazing into his whiskey glass.

"Dean?" Sam prompted.

No reaction or response.

"Hey, guys, I'm gonna go unpack while you visit. That same room okay?" Mose asked.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, sure, of course."

Andrew looked from Sam to the top of Dean's lowered head and back again. "I suppose it's just you and me."

As the two men walked into the hallway, they heard Mose speaking quietly to Dean. And then came the scrape of chair legs against the floor. And _then_ the sound of Dean's footsteps behind them, following down and around the curved corner til Andrew brought the brothers to a stop.

"I hope this door is suitable," Andrew said to Sam, and he nodded in agreement - to _what_ , he didn't exactly know - but regardless, it was just one of many random rooms that were unused. "All you need to do is this," Andrew continued, placing his palm against the wall, to the side of the door frame. A faint glow briefly appeared under his hand. When he opened the door, there was no longer a room there - it was pitch black, save for a hazy bit of light coming from somewhere off to the right. "Go ahead - you'll see her once you're at the staircase."

Before he went in, Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean, who was observing, expressionless. So in he went. Andrew gestured for Dean to go as well, but Dean shook his head.

"Nah. I'll bring up the rear."

Andrew nodded. "Catch the door?"

Dean responded with a small, limp salute. And after they'd gone, he stood for a moment, debating. He took several deep breaths in-and-out. Rubbed his fingers over the knuckles he'd scraped and bruised hitting the wall earlier. Wanting to barrel through that door, get answers, and wanting to go back to drinking, try to forget, all at once.

Dean remembered to close the door as he walked into the darkness.

.

* * *

.

Castiel was mentally reviewing all that he'd learned and witnessed since he'd been brought to the lab. Earlier, before Andrew had gone to collect Dean and Sam, he reviewed the newer scans and results from bloodwork they'd drawn, while Castiel made certain Jane was propped and bundled as well as she could be. She'd had a ponytail holder on her wrist, and so he used it once they'd finished with the procedures, taking great care to smooth out her hair and twist it into a loose bun at the crown of her head. She was still pale, still battered, but cleaned up and looking more like the old Jane. And it actually made a smile come to his face when she sighed contentedly, curled up to the small degree she was able, snuggling down into the pillow he'd placed under her head.

The monitor closest to Jane was now filled with a variety of partitioned data, all showing her status in real-time. Though he couldn't read the symbols nor interpret the patterns of the sections containing wave forms, he was able to determine the brain activity from the cardiac perfusion, the heart's rhythm from the respirations, by observing her, taking her pulse, laying his hand across her forehead, then comparing it to the display. Were it not for the rods coming out of her arm and the wounds on her back and the metallic stitching along the crest of her hip, she looked like a normal girl, breathing softly, sleeping deeply.

"May I ask you something?" Castiel had asked Andrew.

"Hmm?" Andrew replied, still looking at the newer data.

"Might I... is it possible to return some of what Jane gifted me?"

Andrew turned to him. "It won't give back the energy she expended on you, if that's what you're thinking."

Castiel shook his head. "No, no, it's... to be honest, I'm somewhat unnerved by my eyes."

"Unnerved?"

"And... she'd said something at the chapel, when I inquired about the wings. That once, all of my brothers and sisters had them."

"So you want to make sure _that_ -" Andrew gestured to Jane's back "-doesn't spring itself on you?"

Castiel's expression belied a hint of shame as he nodded.

Andrew was silent for a beat or two before he replied. "I am not sure why she told you that, other than to say - well, _you_ saw. She wasn't all Jane, was she?"

Castiel's brow creased for a moment, thinking, before he opted for a simple reply. "No."

It was then that Castiel filled Andrew in on the events of the night, from Jane's ex to his cadre of stone-faced demons and blank-faced guards, to the apparent set-up to trap all those angels and Crowley's demons behind a field, to the mysterious surgeons' fast work of him, and finally his resurrection at Jane's hands.

Andrew listened intently, not responding til Castiel had finished. "I can't speak to all that, at least, not yet. Something I _can_ say for certain: no wings for you. I have more data to review but I'm classifying it under 'fluke' right now." He paused for a moment, a distant sort-of look crossing his face, as if he were recalling a memory. "The best way I can put it: it is not an _inherent_ trait of your kind."

"Long story, I take it?" Castiel guessed.

"To say the least."

Castiel glanced to the wounds on Jane's back, then back to Andrew, saying, "That is most assuredly a relief."

Andrew then walked to a drawer that, like the cabinet, opened upon his approach. He removed a small metallic tool that did not have quite the depth or breadth of a melon baller - it was more like some sort of awkwardly crafted child's spoon. It still made Castiel cringe. The doctor noticed.

"No digging around."

Castiel exhaled slowly. "Good. That's very good."

"Can I get a mirror?" Andrew requested, and a reflective surface appeared on the panel above the island.

"Earlier, they-" Castiel began, but Andrew interrupted.

"Did you become frustrated at something?"

"Yes."

"Did you feel like the irradiation factor was triggered?"

They had been looking at each other in the mirror while they spoke, but now Castiel turned his head to Andrew. "The what- the what was what?"

Andrew let out a sigh. "There remains a copious amount of stories that I plan to share with you, Castiel. Though I am afraid we'll have to put them off for now."

Castiel nodded in acceptance. Andrew had been more forthcoming in their small amount of time together than any other person... any other _being_... he'd ever encountered. Not that he had reason to believe any sort of interrogation - or motivation of a less ethical sort - would have been effective on him. Been _possible._

Andrew reached up with his free hand, took Castiel's chin and guided his face back towards the mirror, asking, "What makes you angry?"

Castiel frowned. "I can't say there's much... I _have_ been angry, certainly, but-"

"What made you angry earlier?"

"It wasn't so much anger as it was concern."

"Because?"

"Dean and Sam - their emotional states. Then, Jane... she was in such pain. Her head was hurting her so badly. She was pressing into it, making _me_ press into it, so _hard_. She was going to hurt herself even _more_ , and she just wouldn't _listen_ , she just couldn't _understand_ -"

_FLICK_

And for the second time that night, Castiel jumped back from a mirror at the sight of those dark blue, demon-esque eyes.

"They're nictating membranes. Close your eyes," Andrew said calmly, raising the tool and placing it over one eyelid, then the other. "Think about them going away."

Castiel felt a bit of tingling, then that pressure again behind his eyes, though it was markedly less. He opened his eyes, blinked several times. He came in close to the mirror, as if to make doubly sure the dark blue was gone.

"The membranes help filter the - you know, bright light, hollows out skulls, lights up a city block? This is familiar to you, yes?"

Castiel cut his eyes - his _back-to-normal_ eyes - over at Andrew, giving him a _look_.

Andrew smiled, then said, "Okay. So. Good news-bad news."

Castiel went back to frowning, and deeper this time.

"Good news: while I can't take them out permanently, they'll stay back. You would have to be absolutely raging like a maniac for them to push themselves out."

Castiel nodded.

"Bad news: can't siphon off the extra energy - the, uh, the grace. So be careful where you point those things. Hollowed-out skulls will be the least of it. Understand?"

Another series of nods, followed by, "Thank you, Andrew."

"Thank _you_. For all you've done for this family over the years. I have no doubt they would not be here, at least, not in their present state, were it not for your support. I have been very impressed, more than once."

Castiel knew he couldn't hide the surprise on his face, so he didn't even try.

"And, I'm specifically thankful for your presence now," Andrew added, "since Sam and Dean will be here soon. Frankly, I have no idea how to tell them about even the very _basics_ of what is happening to Jane."

The angel pondered on this briefly before responding. "Between their father's and mother's sides, their family has practically written the handbook for the strange and unusual. It's their entire lives. They may surprise you with what they're able to process. What they're willing to accept. I cannot say how _long_ they will accept it without knowing more. But I believe, for now, being as open as you have with me is the best start."

Andrew looked at him appreciatively, replying, "I do hope so."

And Castiel found himself hoping as well, and it increased when he heard footsteps slowly coming down the stairs. He turned from staring at the second monitor, where he'd been trying to decipher the symbols and letters associated with Jane's bloodwork, to see Sam, coming to a stark halt at the bottom, looking around the lab in awe. Andrew passed by him, going to stand beside the stretcher. Finally, Dean entered, slowly moving down the stairs but not taking in the lab, his eyes immediately fixed on Jane and nothing else.

Now they stood, the brothers and their angel, at the foot of the stretcher on which Jane laid.

She was face down but tilted to the side, the bad hip propped with a small pillow. Castiel had made sure the hem of the gown covered the heavy stitching on her hip, following it with a blanket on top. There was, however, no hiding the spaces that formerly held wings.

Sam and Dean could see the wings were no more, as evidenced by a pile of what feathers had remained over in a corner, a stark shock of color in the monochrome room. The gown in which she'd been placed was left untied, and they could see why - there were twin incisions, precise and exact, on either side of her spine, starting below her shoulder blades, extending down to just past the small of her back. They were kept open, unbandaged but not bleeding. Two rows of metal pins were lining the edges of each incision, various lengths, some straight down and some angled inward, toward her spine.

Jane's right arm was stretched upward, resting above her head. Thick tubing from several bags of unknown fluids hanging on long hooks emerging from the soft glow of the lit ceiling all ran into what looked like, to them, metal tubes similar to what had been in Castiel's neck back at the chapel. Only these were larger, and were protruding from a well-wrapped bandage enveloping almost the entirety of her wrist and hand. Her fingers were relaxed, but her palm was tilted back at an odd angle, accommodating the rods emerging from the underside. Her other hand was curled up near her face, and Andrew, who had now seated himself on a stool beside the head of the bed, was gently touching it, running his fingers over and around and under, pausing as if contemplating actually holding it, then starting the routine again.

Dean pointed wordlessly to the bandaged wrist and looked at Castiel.

"Those are IOs."

Dean looked at him blankly.

"Intraosseous," Castiel clarified.

Dean glared.

"Straight into the bones," Sam clarified further, then gulped and exhaled a shaky breath.

Silence.

Glancing up at them briefly, noting they were now studying the rods along her spine, Andrew answered the unasked question as he returned his eyes to Jane. "Those keep the incisions from closing too quickly. She's weak, but still healing rapidly. Need the inflammation to go down first."

"Is... is she paralyzed or anything?" Sam asked, concerned.

Andrew shook his head. "Not permanently."

"Did you figure out what caused them? The wings?"

While Sam continued to seek answers, Dean kept uncharacteristically quiet, crossing his arms, pacing, going back and forth behind Sam and Castiel.

Again, Andrew shook his head, still watching Jane's sleeping face. They waited. He took a deep breath, glanced at the monitor, and finally looked up, saying, "She'll have to learn to control them. They are... part of her now. Her physiology. Her central nervous system."

Dean paused in his strides, and Sam's face went expressionless, both brothers looking at Andrew with blank eyes as he continued.

"And her vertebrae. There's actually new cartilage and bone surface all along the column." He paused for a moment, returned his gaze to Jane. "But it's, ah... it's incomplete. She'll never fly."

"Then... they might come back," Sam said quietly.

"What was there today was... primitive. The breakdown wasn't a conscious decision on her part. Think of it as molting."

"And they'll come back, what - bigger? Thicker?"

"Perhaps. But it _is_ very likely they'll be different. More advanced, for lack of a better word. The design - it wasn't based upon bird-like physiology alone. My guess is that this will be the only shed-and-replace cycle."

"For this species, wings have evolved past what we know," Castiel broke in abruptly, processing aloud without realizing.

And the tidbit was clearly something Andrew was apparently planning on keeping to himself - at least, presently - based on how he jerked his head up and over to look at the angel, more than a little surprise on his face. "You are much more astute than I'd given you credit for," Andrew said in a complimentary manner. "I won't make that mistake again."

He said that last part in the same measured tone as the rest, but held Castiel's eye for just a beat longer than was necessary. Andrew knew about his meeting with Crowley, Castiel was sure now. Probably was close by that diner. Maybe _in_ the diner. Maybe even heard everything they'd said.

It was then that Dean sprang back to life. "Can you two flirt later?" he interjected angrily. "Because, species? _Species?!_ "

"I wasn't exactly referring to Jane-" Castiel began, but Sam interrupted, knowing that line of thought was going to ramp Dean up even further, leading them down a more complex road than Andrew was willing to travel at this point. He didn't want to risk it.

"Should we maybe-" Sam began, but Dean was having none of it.

Clearly struggling to dial down his volume and keep the edge off his tone, Dean looked Andrew dead in the eye and asked one short question. "What is she?"

" _Who_ she is, is your sister," Andrew replied, and with what Dean found an incredibly annoying calmness.

"That _wasn't_ our sister back there."

"She _is_ your sibling, in more ways than I can explain tonight."

Dean bristled. " _What_ in the ever-loving _hell_ is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means whether we like it or not, we all carry the history of those who came before within us."

"And there's some sort of _history_ in her that you were trying to tease out? For what, to use it? To use _her?_ "

Now Sam jumped in, and hotly, his earlier resolution slipping away due to his overwhelming curiosity. "And what about _us?_ If there's something in her - in what, genes? DNA? RNA? Whatever? - then is it in _us_ , too?"

"Have you been planning on injecting _us_ with all that junk?" Dean added, his face getting redder by the second.

"No, I was not. I _am_ not. When it came to Jane, I had no choice. And I remind you: a long line of others have tried to manipulate you both into changing. Being vessels for angels, shouldering the Mark and the transformation it ---"

"So that makes it, what, we should understand, and be _grateful_ that you haven't tried to slip us a mickey and take advantage of us? Gee, thanks, Andrew, you're such a gentleman," Dean said, dripping with sarcasm, returning to his pacing.

"Where was _her_ choice?" Sam asked in a small voice. He was staring down at Jane. She was so pale and so, so still.

"She was very ill, Sam. Deathly ill, from the moment she was born. If I hadn't intervened-"

"But when she wasn't a baby, wasn't a kid anymore, what's your excuse then?" Dean interrupted. He kept stopping and starting his nervous meandering, unable to keep one position for very long.

Andrew sighed. Castiel actually felt a twinge of sympathy for him, but as with Jane's questioning of him earlier in the showers, the angel didn't feel it was his place to intervene. On some level, Andrew must have known these were inevitable confrontations.

"This is an extremely complex-" Andrew started, only to have Dean continue to interrupt.

"So _un_ complicate it. Or don't. We can keep up."

"Dean, I'm not saying this is complicated to be patronizing or secretive, I'm trying to tell you that this is not the time-"

"When _is_ the time?"

"When she's awake. When you're all together. When your family is whole again."

They all grew silent, looking down at her sleeping form.

"So she _will_ wake up?" Sam asked.

A moment passed, Andrew back to staring down at her, running a finger over her hand again. "Yes," he answered softly. "Then, she'll never forgive me."

"You don't deserve forgiveness," Dean stated.

"I know," Andrew whispered, not bothering to mount a defense.

The only sound in the room for several long minutes were the drip-drops going through the tubing and down to Jane.

Sam cleared his throat, opting to change the subject. "So, molting - that was fast, wasn't it?" he asked.

Andrew's melancholic moment faded a bit, though his answers remained somewhat veiled and cryptic. "It was. Things _are_ moving fast for her. _Will_ be moving fast for her now," Andrew replied. He glanced away, appearing to be considering his next words carefully before bringing his eyes to Sam's. "Tonight has put a definite rush on things. It's going to be difficult, but not impossible, to get her up and running again."

"She's _not_ a _car_ ," Dean practically spat, fury written all over his face and posture. "You act like you're just giving her a lube, oil, and filter, kick the tires - and I don't know _what_ all the hell you did to her, and I don't know that I even _care_. But I _do_ wanna know what you're gonna do to make her normal again. So she can have her life back."

Sam shot Dean a harsh look, so he went back to pacing around. Turning again to Andrew, Sam tried to keep on topic, since it seemed, despite Dean's nastiness, Andrew was willing to drop some of the subterfuge, be more forthcoming on the smaller subjects. And at this point, Sam would take all the insight into what was happening that he could get. "The wings, will they... tear up her skin every time? I mean, I'm not a doctor, but it's not like those incisions can just stay open all the time."

"No, you're right. I'm thinking on options. Maybe initially, temporarily killing those pain receptors for her comfort, until we can safely remove everything."

"What's 'everything'? Surgery on the vertebrae, when she's stronger?" asked Castiel.

"May be simpler to just grow a new spinal column altogether ---"

Sam's eyebrows raised. Dean had stopped his pacing abruptly to stare. Castiel's jaw dropped ever-so-slightly. Andrew had said it as if it were a simple procedure that was done everyday.

"--- but of course, ultimately, I'll likely need to deactivate that part of the genome."

"He'll just deactivate that part of the genome," Dean echoed flippantly.

"Dean," Castiel warned sternly.

"You know what? Stuff it, Cas."

"He saved her life," Andrew said, standing up but keeping his voice calm despite Dean's ever-worsening cycles of lashing out.

"I shouldn't have given all the medication at once," Castiel suddenly said in a remorseful tone.

Andrew walked over and put his hands on Castiel's shoulders, saying, "Look at me, please."

Castiel complied.

"I'm not being figurative: _you saved her life_ ," Andrew emphasized. "That Jamie jerk? He was given _very_ bad advice. The amount of blood loss from the stab - and then even more from the pelvis..." Andrew trailed off, shaking his head. "And that field you described - even if those people didn't come after you, even you _could've_ gotten to her, healing her wasn't an option. Your quick thinking gave her system the boost it needed to set things in motion. _You_ are why Jane survived."

Castiel thought on this, then said something that surprised everyone. "I want to be able to do this. To heal. Like you do. For Jane, should she need it and you're unavailable. For Sam and Dean. For anyone."

"Oh, screw that," Dean announced, stomping his way over to where they stood, bloodshot but piercing eyes drilling into Castiel.

"You won't be messing with me ---"

Now he pointed at Sam.

"---and I sure as hell won't let you mess with _him --_ -"

Then he pointed over to Jane.

"--- and Cas, I will _end_ you if you _ever_ tried to pull ---"

Dean jabbed a finger into Andrew's chest.

"--- more of _his_ type of garbage on _her_ , and don't think I can't find a way to do it."

Sam's jaw was beginning to ache, he'd been clamping down so tightly, and he felt his face get pinched and flushed. In two long strides, he was in between Dean and the others, and without a word, physically started moving his brother toward the exit, partially heaving him off of his feet.

"What the f--"

"You're _wasted_ ," Sam cut him off tersely. "And I'm mad at Andrew, too, at _all_ of this, but you're making things a thousand times worse."

Dean twisted, managed to get in an uppercut, but it didn't land with much impact, as his hand was apparently still sore from re-injuring it when he'd smacked the wall. And Sam said so as he snatched Dean's arm again, still moving him away from everyone.

"Feel better now that you're ruining what Cas wasted his grace on your spoiled brat ass? We nearly _lost_ him tonight, do you remember that or did all those drinks wash it away," Sam said, not really asking, because he could see Dean was in _some_ pain underneath the whiskey haze, though he knew it didn't all stem from the hand.

" _NO!_ And just a thousand times? I've still got about _two_ thousand more things to tell that son of a bitch!"

"She can probably sense us, Dean! You really think she's not picking up on all this... this _hate_ that's coming off of you?!" He let go of Dean's arm then, shoving him in the direction of the staircase. Sam pointed to it. "Go. If you're not going to bother to listen, then find something else to do."

"Screw you," Dean shot back, glaring. "And I'll leave. But only because of her - unlike the rest of you, _I'm_ not willing to poison her, or jam freaking _rods_ into her, or... or even by _me_ just being in the same room." Then Dean looked to Andrew, adding, "And I swear to god, if you keep lying to her, trying to make things easier on yourself, you'll be making the biggest mistake of your life, because it's gonna start with me."

"Start what?" asked Castiel.

"Telling the _truth_. I'm done with the lies. With _all_ of it. With all of _you_. No more secrets, _NO MORE!_ " Dean paused for a moment, but he turned away, only to pause again before he stomped up the stairs and out the door, eyes glazed with tears, and at the lowest volume he'd used since their return to the bunker, said one final thing:

"She deserves better than us."

After Dean was gone, Sam walked back over and found himself getting tired. Fed up. And not just with Dean. He'd given Andrew every benefit of the doubt. So while he didn't exactly agree with all of Dean's parting sentiment, he agreed with one aspect - Andrew was undeserving of Jane. The medical attentiveness was one thing; the deception was quite another. He stood in front of Andrew, hands on hips, face locked into as focused, and borderline deadly, an expression as Castiel thought he'd ever seen on his youngest charge.

"She's as stable as possible?" Sam asked.

Andrew nodded. "Yes."

"You can monitor her from wherever?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then I'm going to drive you back to the apartment--"

"I can just--"

"No." Sam waited to make sure Andrew wasn't going to interrupt him again before he continued. "I want to physically, and with my own eyes, make sure you're there. That I know where you're going to be for the next little while, and maybe, just _maybe_ , you'll have started to earn back part of my trust."

A nod of silent acknowledgement, this one more reminiscent of the years-long, mostly shy façade Andrew had portrayed to Sam. When they would chat, when they would laugh. When they were friends.

" _Then_ I want to know that you won't come back til it's time to do whatever you need to do to get her well," Sam added.

"I'd feel more comfortable if someone were here, monitoring her on site--"

"Good thing we've got Cas. And as soon as Dean's gotten some sleep and sobered up, he and I can take shifts. You said we can come down here whenever we want, right?"

Andrew suddenly seemed exhausted. "Yeah. Yes. Of course."

"Fine. I'll be in the garage." With one last look at Jane, Sam turned and left. And after he went through the door and back into the bunker, he frowned, brought his hand to his stomach. The loud belch that abruptly emerged from his mouth startled him.

"Nice."

Dean's voice had come from nearby. Sam rounded the corner and saw him sitting on the floor, back against the wall. His eyes were red, and not just from being drunk. He was staring blankly straight ahead.

"Reminds me of what it used to feel like when Cas first started carting me around," Dean said.

Sam stayed standing, but he didn't make a move to walk away.

"It always knotted my gut up, every time," Dean continued. "Then when I went all black-eyed..." He trailed off and chuckled. "I love Baby but, man. I do miss just popping around."

Sam didn't really know how to reply. Dean hardly spoke of his feelings as it was, and he certainly never had anything positive to say about his time as a demon. A good sign or a bad sign, this reveal - Sam couldn't decide, so he asked, "Is that what it feels like? To do it... to do it..."

Dean looked up at him, asking, "On your own? Nobody hitching a ride?"

Sam nodded.

"Yeah, sort-of. Not exactly." He glanced in the direction of the door. "That ain't taking us anywhere around these parts, that's for sure."

"What, ah... what made you come down there? Did you just want to pick a fight with Andrew?"

Dean shrugged.

"Was it whatever Mose said to you?" Sam pressed.

Dean chuckled. "He said - 'If the next words out of your mouth aren't _Hey Mose, I'm going to go be with my brother and sister, see you in a little while_ , then the ones after that will be _Oh god, someone help me, I've been kicked in the face'_."

Sam chuckled, too, briefly wondering why he'd ever doubted Mose in the first place. Dean pushed himself off the floor and wobbled a bit. Sam reached out and steadied him. Then before he knew it, Dean grabbed onto him, pulling Sam into a fierce hug.

After a moment, Sam said, "Let's get you to bed, yeah?"

He heard Dean sniffle, felt his head nod, and he let loose, turned abruptly, mumbled, "Okay."

Now on steadier feet, Sam watched Dean head to his room. He waited til he heard the door close before going to the war room to retrieve his jacket and head on to the garage. But on second thought, Sam detoured briefly to the kitchen, still feeling a bit worked up and hot on the inside.

And after he'd opened the fridge to grab a chilled bottle of water, he found himself staring at the tray of the syringes Castiel had prepped for Jane.

.

* * *

.

While Sam lingered in the kitchen, Andrew said goodbye to Jane, Castiel waited patiently, and Dean and Mose were sound asleep in their respective beds, there was another person in the bunker, lurking just behind the door of one of the _other_ many unused rooms along the hallway where that magical entry to the lab had been created.

Andrew eventually emerged, Castiel with him, saying he would walk him to the garage, then head back to monitor Jane. The tall blonde man had seemingly lost his stoicism and drive for the present time, just nodding his responses and walking with a slight slouch to his shoulders. He was distracted, clearly - but had he followed through on what he'd said in the showers?

Crowley was about to find out.

The demon assumed it was Andrew's doing that allowed him to pop seamlessly into the bunker - he'd chosen to enter near the dungeon-like room he knew well, taking care to avoid the devil's traps. He had not gone back to his loft after his earlier exit, not even to change out of his wrecked suit. There was an errand that couldn't wait, which he'd attended to swiftly.

And post-arrival, he'd made his way up to the next floor stealthily, slipping inside the first room he came upon, peeking through the crack he'd left in the door - all just in time to hear the explanation of how Sam and Dean could enter the space where Jane was receiving care. Then he'd hidden, wrinkling his nose at the decor, a habit he'd failed to shake over the years, later eavesdropping on Sam and Dean's conversation. He had to admit it pleased him to hear Dean reminisce about their summer. Well, not exactly _him_ or their adventures together, so much as Dean's time as a demon. The information was tucked away for later.

But for now, with the hallway clear and the lab only occupied by Jane, Crowley walked over to the doorway. "Here goes," he said to himself under his breath, then planted his palm to the side of the frame.

The knob turned easily.

Crowley noted no feeling akin to the one at the chapel, realizing Andrew must've granted an all-access pass beyond just the door - he could tell that popping in-and-out per his usual wouldn't be an issue. And he observed the lab briefly, but there was no time for study or nosing around at the present. He took a seat on the stool. He looked at Jane almost fondly.

"I seem to keep finding myself here when it comes to your family," Crowley said quietly. After some thought, he muttered, "Except you aren't marked. You're not dead or dying, are you, little girl?"

He brushed aside the short, wispy hairs on her forehead, watched as her eyes moved beneath the closed lids.

"I lied to them earlier, letting them think there were only bits and pieces I could understand," Crowley told her, "because I think I understood just fine. You're sharp, or else my poker face needs work. You read me like a book, what I thought seeing all those angels and demons hitting their knees, shaking like proverbial leaves. How I wondered what your very presence tripped in them, calling up some reflex they didn't even know they had."

He leaned in closer.

"You said your brothers should've _known_. That this was how we were _created_ , to _believe_. And, I presume, to tremble. I didn't catch all of it, but I caught that, yeah?"

Crowley shifted on the stool, narrowed his eyes a bit.

"So tell me this, dear Jane: why didn't I? The first demons were made by the biggest, baddest angel of them all, now weren't they? And then they started warping souls in kind, all the way down to me, and I've done my fair share in turn to keep the party line going. Yet I felt no reflexive need. I didn't need your approval to rise from knees I'd voluntarily taken. Is it because I'm stronger than the other demons who were there? This soul is prime evil, center cut. I know because I lived it, I _earned_ it."

A pause.

"Is it because I'm _different_ than the other demons who were there?"

Crowley continued to stare at her, but it was more like staring _through_ her, as his tone shifted from his typical deep-seated arrogance to something almost humbled.

"I don't know if you can hear me. I don't know if I'll be able to ask this when you're awake... when you're you again... if you're ever _you_ again. Or even if you'll have any answers, should blonde doctor take away that monster inside you. But there's questions I have. That I've never been able to answer. I need to know what-"

Suddenly there were footsteps nearby, coming closer.

Crowley was gone before Castiel ever hit the first step.

.

* * *

.

Following a completely silent and tense drive with Sam to the apartment, Andrew opened his mouth after he'd gotten out, to apologize directly, make sure Sam knew he'd genuinely considered him a friend, but the younger man had peeled away before he'd even completely closed the door.

Inside, Andrew stood in Jane's room, looking around, feeling a bit lost. He went to the closet, pulled out a bag, laid it on the bed. He began to collect random things he thought might comfort her, even though she couldn't possibly know they were there. But maybe she would. Maybe she would sense he was trying.

Gabriel had cleaned up the mess leftover from the altercation, returned everything to its proper place. Andrew folded up the old quilt Nanny had made for Jane when she was a child that had been tossed back to where it lived, at the foot of her bed. Anytime Jane had been in the hospital for longer than a day, Nanny had faithfully brought it to her, shushing the nurses who occasionally commented on a risk of germs. Even then, Nanny always seemed to know better, know what was best for Jane.

He stuffed it into the bag, then turned to the top of the chest of drawers, gathering the photos stuck in the frame. Andrew looked sadly at the four pictures in a narrow, vertical strip. It was the two of them, celebrating after she'd recovered from yet another surgery and was feeling energized. They'd gone to a random mall to pick up a few pieces of clothing for Jane, blousier tops and stretchy yoga pants, so her sore abdomen wouldn't feel compressed. And despite the reason they were there, she'd gotten absolutely giddy when upon spotting the photo booth.

They'd first made silly faces; in the next, runway model-level seriousness; as for the third, her eyes were squinched tight from startled giggles, as he'd surprised her by leaning in and giving her a big kiss on the cheek; and in the fourth, the one Andrew's eyes lingered on the longest, their heads were propped against each other and they were both smiling happily.

He put away his memories as he put away the pictures, sticking them in a pocket on the outside of the bag. As an afterthought, he turned back, pulling the charm bracelet, her most favorite piece of jewelry besides the locket, from around the teacup, placing it in the pocket as well. Andrew's back was to the door, eyes down as he was debating what to choose from the stack of books in a basket next to her nightstand, when he spoke.

"I figured rumors of your death had been greatly exaggerated."

From behind him came a soft chuckle, a shuffle, and then a bit of mattress-creaking as his visitor seated themselves.

"Well, you know I live for irony."

"How are you?" Andrew asked, squatting and rummaging through the books. He wanted to read to her. Or someone else could, he hadn't quite decided if it was his voice causing the occasional spikes in her brain waves. Could just be dreaming. He didn't know anything for sure anymore.

"How are _you?_ "

Andrew sighed, rising. "I've been better." He turned, placing several books in the bag.

"And your patient?"

"In stasis. Healing."

No response.

"To what do I owe the honor?" Andrew asked. "Not that it isn't good to see you, Ezra."

The man on the bed arched an eyebrow as he glanced at the books, commenting, "Interesting choices."

"I want to remind her of... of..."

"Simpler times?"

Andrew nodded.

"Still - fairy tales?"

"It's what Nanny would read to her when she'd get sick, to help her go to sleep."

Ezra took the books back out of the bag. He read the titles aloud, afterward setting each to the side one at a time. Andrew went back to the chest, opening drawers and pulling out pairs of thick socks. Jane hated bare feet - hers, his, _anyone's_.

" _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_... _The Wizard of Oz_... _Alice in Wonderland_... _Through the Looking Glass_ \- well, those last two are nightmare fuel."

Andrew smiled slightly as he continued packing.

"Ah, now this one's apropos: _Sleeping Beauty_."

The smile disappeared. "More like _La Belle et la Bête_ ," said Andrew.

"You think yourself a beast?"

Andrew looked at him. "Aren't I?"

"Have you ever known me to supplement your self-flagellations?"

Andrew shrugged. He pushed the bag aside and sat down on the bed. Then he pointed to the cane that had been leaned against the wall near the door. It was black, made for a tall person's height, and had a generous, thick, decoratively-scrolled, brushed metal handle.

"That new? Not quite the same effect as a scythe, but it's nice."

Ezra flicked a microscopic piece of lint off his black suit pants as he crossed his legs. "That is a gift for the lovely Jane. I believe she'll find it of use. When she decides it's time to rejoin the land of the living."

Andrew raised his eyebrows. "So the word's out?"

"The Reapers keep meticulous records. Her name came through with other potentials, got a dispatch. But as you know, there wasn't a need. Not that they could've done anything - our old friend's been hard at work. Sounds like it was an impressive bit of shielding on his part."

Andrew made a scoffing sound. "Friend," he repeated. "You and Gabriel, both - has time and distance really made him seem less dangerous?"

Beady black eyes bore into his with the response. "Oh, I've reached my limit of pretending to be banished and bound and destroyed. Besides. You know me better than that."

Andrew nodded. "I do," he said quietly.

Ezra put the books into the bag, but held on to the last and looked back to his young companion with a more relaxed - well, for _him_ \- expression on his pale, gaunt face, saying, "This one, I think."

Andrew looked at him questioningly.

"Seems so innocuous. Yet underneath it's so violent, so insidious. Sorcerers and curses, winged guardians and their hidden princess. True, you've battled your share of dragons. And you're still no prince. But you're also no beast." He gave Andrew the small storybook, then waited until he'd stood before continuing. "So how will you handle your sleeping beauty, once you've cut away all those thorns? Will you kiss her awake? Or leave to fight your demons?"

Andrew leaned over, propping his forearms on his knees, staring at the cover of the book he held in his hands, at the drawing of the still princess on the bed in the castle overrun with enchanted thorns. After a few moments of consideration, he looked back up. "Something tells me I'll have plenty of time to work that out."

"Oh?"

"I'm not sure our beauty will come back to us anytime soon."

.

* * *

.

At the time, Andrew was thinking in terms of weeks. Perhaps a month, give or take. Much longer than just the handful of days he would've normally needed, had Jane gone into that chapel with more strength. If he'd been able to prepare her. Protect her.

Because while she was growing stronger from the inside out, slowly then rapidly, sailing past the point where she'd healed completely, Jane remained in her deep sleep, hidden away from the world.

So it was that as cases came and went, as fall turned to winter, as all the late-year holidays flew right by, and the old year rolled into the new, Sam and Dean Winchester found themselves with a routine in their typically scattered lives. They took turns going to see her like clockwork when they weren't on the road, trying to avoid Andrew whenever possible. They hoped each time that this would be the one, the day she sat up and smiled. But they would have to wait, maybe even pray, most definitely wish.

 

 

And then, exactly three months, four days, eleven hours and thirty-two minutes later, those wishes unexpectedly came true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	12. Postcards From The Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam, Castiel, Andrew, Mose and Dean start out in the same place this night, but as they go their separate ways, they are all forced into remembering their past realities in preparation for the one to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [AUTHOR'S NOTE: We (myself & the friend who convinced me to write this story) don't plan on making a habit of the introductory quote matching the chapter title. However, scenes from this chapter - some of which were written over a year ago - had all been earmarked as "Postcards from the Edge". Then the author of that book, one of our idols, got taken from the world far too soon. So in a very Carrie way, we said f*ck it & used a quote we had queued up for another chapter on this one instead. Heroines are made up of many things. Jane has a little bit of Leia, but a whole lotta Carrie. And in that vein... Carrie on - Nash]

* * *

_"From here on out, there's just reality. I think that's what maturity is: a stoic response to endless reality.  
__But then, what do I know?" ― Carrie Fisher, actress; author; screenwriter; role model; everything:_ _Postcards from the Edge_

 

* * *

 

MEN OF LETTERS BUNKER  
WEDNESDAY EVENING  
THREE MONTHS, THREE DAYS & COUNTING

.

Sam and Dean walked into the war room carrying drinks and pizza. Mose was seated at one of the corner areas, headphones on, reviewing the most recent episode of The Hollow. Sam caught his eye, then pointed to the pizza boxes Dean carried and raised his eyebrows. Mose nodded and held up a finger.

The Winchester brothers had made it past the three month mark without their sister's presence in their lives. Dean knew it was harder on Sam, so he'd tried to keep him - keep the _both_ of them - busy with cases. That is, additional cases piled atop of the most recent potentially world-ending issues. Castiel occasionally helped, Crowley occasionally interrupted, and it did make them feel better that Mose was behind the scenes, holding down the fort as it were, someone they trusted to keep an eye on both Jane and Andrew.

Things, however, had changed.

Mose didn't push them to talk, he knew they would've if they'd wanted to. Instead, he admittedly got a kick out of watching the physical manifestations of their internal processing. He had, wisely, not participated in any of the bets - some of the terms had been inexplicably focused on hair, and Mose had left the Afro part of his aesthetic deep in the past. Receding hairlines will do that to an image-conscious person such as himself, reclusive nature be damned.

Dean's hair had gotten longer in general, but it was the almost-full beard on his face that was the real evidence of his being the first casualty of the bet concerning a wake-up time for Jane. His guess had been far too early, though he'd estimated a time further out than Andrew had promised. Sam had been the next casualty.

Sam's beard wasn't much to speak of, not yet, though it was growing in nicely, but that was nothing compared to the growth from his head. The younger Winchester's hair grew faster anyway, and due to the lack of regular trimming, was now typically pulled back in a low ponytail. He'd attempted a sort-of top knot initially; it had succumbed quickly to Dean's tear-inducing laughter every time he saw it.

Surprisingly, the B.E.T.T.Y had also gotten in on the action. It was disheartening to them all that even its calculation, for all the metrics and statistics applied, were dead wrong. Not having any hair, the terms were a change in voice. The program had revealed that it had been trying on new accents and languages and regional dialects for quite some time, in some sort of pre-determined order that it - being a machine and all - preferred to keep in check. It had been running through North American states and provinces, followed by individual areas of said states and provinces, and had landed on something from Idaho. Upon its loss, it switched - almost begrudgingly, it seemed - to a new voice of their choosing, and they'd gone with something akin to a cockney, Eliza Doolittle-ish voice. Pre-Higgins, of course, though the B.E.T.T.Y found altering its grammar a step too far.

The B.E.T.T.Y reminded both Dean and Sam of Castiel - at least, the _past_ Castiel. How he'd always seemed to live in that tricky state of having an immense amount of knowledge of human ways, but not ever getting a bead on how to translate that knowledge fluidly into reality. Yet now, the B.E.T.T.Y almost seemed more like Castiel than Castiel, himself. An ease with conveying bits of humor, usage of appropriate colloquialisms and analogies - Castiel still struggled with those on occasion. But since the chapel, there were subtle - and some not-so-subtle - changes.

The angel had become increasingly less personable, seemed quicker to irritation, huffing, sighing, working his jaw before he spoke, and then when he did, it was often clipped, direct, sometimes borderline harsh. And he got hungry, though he didn't eat great amounts. And he would take short breaks for power naps, essentially becoming another resident of the bunker. He was dividing his time between meals, cases, sleep, food and caring for Jane. On these matters, on these _priorities_ , the trio were in sync; other priorities seemed up for debate.

"Can you _please_ go clean up?" Sam asked Dean as they set the food and drinks on the table.

"What?" Dean asked, looking down at himself. He was in his paint-splattered coveralls, still dotted here-and-there with oil and grease from the most recent time he'd repaired the Impala. A fine coat of drywall dust topped it all off.

Sam gave him a _look_. "It's in your beard, too."

Dean returned Sam's facial expression. "You look real pretty, too, champ. How's about you go hose off before I stuff pepperoni up my nose to combat the smell."

Sam was in workout clothes, having come from lifting weights. Dean had been busy with repairs, so Mose didn't think he was aware of how long his younger brother had been at it. Sam had also gone running that morning, and the significant perspiration stains indicated the extent to which he was pushing his body.

"Nevermind. Let's just eat," Sam responded with a sigh.

They were opening the boxes when Mose pulled off his headphones, clicked a few things and then adjusted the volume so they could hear what he'd been listening to, saying, "Check this out - Max put it in the updates of the latest Hollow."

Dean and Sam were still worried that the story of the chapel incident - the real story - would somehow leak, that the story of _Jane_ would somehow spread. They didn't hardly even speak of her when out and about on their cases. Sometimes before they went to sleep it would come up, though they almost didn't feel comfortable discussing it even in the motels. Not _anywhere_ that wasn't home; it simply wasn't worth the risk of being overheard. They only allowed themselves the occasional check-in phone call to Mose when safe in the confines of the Impala.

Mose was not as concerned, and it wasn't because Jane was still a stranger to him; if she was important to the brothers, that was all he needed to know. But as he'd explained to his friends, they had the best barometer for such chatter right at their fingertips. And it was being filtered by Mose's hand-picked gatekeeper.

Max was on a need-to-know basis, of course, and that didn't raise a flag for the intern because Mose had already conditioned him to such. He'd been instructed to cut off or change the subject if live callers brought up the chapel, edit out any mention of it in pre-records, and if anyone had a problem with it, Max was to send it along for Mose to deal with personally. The party line to be towed was simple: that chapel, that land, that _town_ very well may be some sort of paranormal hot spot, but in this instance it truly was a freak happening. Anything that supported the story, Max had the go-ahead to include in the next broadcast's updates segment. It had only come up, news-wise, a few times over the three months since the incident, and Mose didn't want to worry the brothers with how often audience members called in with questions.

Not just yet.

The voice of a familiar local news anchor came through the speakers first, saying, "In a follow-up to the bizarre electrical happenings last fall that seemed to hit hardest in the small town of Hunter, here's Chase Shark with 'Cut To The Chase'."

Then came a voice of a jovial sort, that of a reporter who specialized more in being witty than in conveying the news succinctly, definitely in contrast to the title of his regular feature segment. "My fellow Kansassians-"

Dean looked at Sam and Mose, rolled his eyes.

"-the American Meteorological Society and National Weather Association have released their findings. Look, folks, it's all online, you feel free to dig through it,'cause I tell ya, we got some _words_ in this one."

Mild titters of laughter from the studio's crew, the desk anchors, and a raucous chuckle from the sports anchor could be heard in the background.

"Luckily our studio is full of unpaid interns and dictionaries, so I can still relay the scoop. To recap, blackouts were experienced as far away as Brewster, Topeka, Wichita, and Hastings, Nebraska. Now I know you conspiracy lovers got a real buzz snorting all this up, but like we'd reported before: there were several power grid failures. Just so happened to go down at the same time. Complete coincidence. Then the backups kicked in like they were supposed to, nobody missed their sports and soap operas. Let's take it down a notch. _Stop emailing me_ , is what I'm getting at."

The three friends shared a _look_ , all still thinking the same thing - coming out of this Shark guy's mouth, it reeked of bull, even to them.

"But back to our overly-verbose weather nerds. They found what happened that night near Hunter was juuuuust the right combo of pressure and humidity and all those things we hate because it usually means a tornado, and then we have to deal with ol' Auntie Em and her family griping about their house-"

More laughter in the studio.

"He's not even _funny_ ," Dean said, a mildly astonished expression passing over his face.

"-but this time it happened to create some wicked cool lightning. Let's all be thankful we didn't get whooshed away, Munchkins. And that's how you Cut to the Chase."

Mose pushed pause, saying, "You just know he winked at the camera after that."

Sam chuckled, but Dean was more concerned than amused.

"So that's it - that's been the most media in forever, right?" Dean inquired, but was interrupted before receiving an answer.

"This smells _wonderful_ ," Castiel commented, coming into the room with four plates and a stack of napkins, immediately beginning to lay them out in front of chairs.

Sam and Dean shared a brief glance.

"Well, there's three kinds to choose from," Dean told him. "Knock yourself out."

Mose didn't rise from his chair - instead his head turned, then tilted to the side. His face didn't seem to indicate he was in any pain, only a little drawn up, one eye twitching briefly, like he'd eaten something sour. It faded as he looked to them, advising, "Grab your drawers."

The lights dimmed, then went bright before returning to normal. Mose's screens flickered and his modern-day equipment shut down, though the older equipment in the room only glitched and whined a bit. They all felt a subtle vibration under their shoes very briefly, the sensation traveling up to around their ankles.

Silence.

"That wasn't a bad one... was it?" Sam asked Mose, trepidation in his voice.

Three light bulbs popped and one last solid vibration caused the furniture to shudder. They all looked at one another. A few more silent moments passed - but nothing else.

Mose turned and began re-booting while he answered Sam's question slowly. "No change in pitch, but still... messy, I guess? It's just getting more..."

Mose had previously described the pitch as taking on something akin to the aurora he'd witnessed right before his arrival. But this, he explained, was new to him. It was less a color, or a combination of hues, and more of a light spectrum. It was like the patterns cast on the wall when light passes through a crystal vase or smaller, dangling crystals on a lamp or a chandelier. Sharp angles, perhaps a touch of a rainbow, if they twirled as the echoes retreated. All in all, an erratic mosaic of prisms.

"Louder? Stronger? What?" Dean pressed.

Mose thought a bit longer, then turned to face them, finally settling on, " _Brighter_."

Castiel looked at the pizza boxes longingly and - without a word - turned, headed towards the hall and then to, the rest assumed, the door to the lab. He seemed to prefer it, rather than merely popping in, despite all being told to think of the lab as an extension of the bunker. The brothers had even witnessed Andrew confirming that Castiel could just use his angelic travel during one of the few instances when they'd all ended up going to see Jane at the same time. They'd each mentally added it to the list of new Castiel quirks.

"What is _wrong_ with that thing? Isn't it supposed to be alerting us, or you, or doing _something_ when she gets like this?" Dean asked with a frown, referring to the B.E.T.T.Y.

"Too sporadic and unpredictable, there's no pattern, nothing in her vital signs to tell us it's coming, I've already asked, be right back," Castiel replied, one long run-on sentence that faded as he went further down the hallway.

Dean's frown deepened as he followed after.

Mose came over to the table. Sam had put a slice of pizza on his plate and sat, cracked open a soda and drank a few sips. But then he was staring at a spot somewhere down the table, seemingly deep in thought.

Mose followed suit, threw a couple of slices on a plate, grabbed a soda, went back to his work area. "I'm gonna keep listening, got a few other things to go over," he told Sam as he sat down. "That cool? Or you need to talk about something?"

"No," Sam replied, shaking his head. More staring. Then he stood, looked to Mose. "I think I'm gonna go for a run. I'll put this stuff up, though. Unless you think you'll want more?"

Mose eyed him carefully for a second before he replied. "Nah, I'm good. Thanks, though."

Sam returned his slice, closed the boxes, dropped them off in the kitchen, and went straight out the door.

.

* * *

.

**SAM**

Dean thought Sam ran because he was trying to occupy his mind, get it off Jane, and Sam let him go on thinking that - after all, it was true. Except it was _also_ true that Sam kept waking up, even after only a few hours' sleep, with so much energy his teeth would chatter and his legs would jitter. Pounding pavement seemed the only way to settle them.

He'd been running every morning since the first month, even when he and Dean were on the road. And then, unless some sort of injury was severe enough to put him on bed rest for a time, night runs had been added to the routine around month two. The runs would go on for at least an hour. He had to be careful about watching his distance from the bunker or the motels, so he could get back before Dean woke up. No phone, no earbuds to distract from his pacing.

The first thing Sam would do upon his return - whether from a morning run or from a road trip - was to shower, and then immediately head to the lab to see Jane. The B.E.T.T.Y had told them that Jane's coma was actually more like a hibernation - _stasis_ was the word it had used - and that everything, including day-to-day things like eating and bathing, were on hold, her internal healing the only bodily function allowed to change in real time. But Sam cornered the market on her hair. It had grown several inches and was time-consuming to wash, but it was the only non-strenuous activity that seemed to calm his body and mind.

When it wasn't yet time to give it another wash, Sam would take Jane's hairbrush down to the lab with him, sitting and brushing it while listening to the music the B.E.T.T.Y played - instrumentals, some classical, all soothing to the ear. And he'd talk with the chatty program, felt like they were becoming friends, strange as it sounded. Sam had even taking to calling it simply "Betty", regardless of what voice had been floating out. The others, even Andrew, had picked up the habit. Well, except for Dean - being in Betty's presence would, without fail, put him on edge. But Sam found Betty fascinating, and he was more than grateful to have such a capable guardian watching over Jane, computer or no. That, and it was nice to have someone - even if it wasn't truly a _someone -_ around with whom he could let his guard down.

Just that morning, following a pre-dawn run and post-dawn shower, Sam was applying a handful of shampoo to Jane's newly dampened hair when he asked how the acronym had matched up so nicely in modern English.

"It isn't an exact translation to my original label, but close enough. What I suppose would be chalked up to a 'fluke'."

Sam chuckled, working up more foam in the middle of Jane's scalp. "Well, you lucked out."

"Indeed. It's happened before, however. There was a runic language that came quite close. The most accurate might've been in Hen Gymraeg."

"Help me out, here."

"Old Welsh, I believe 6th or 7th century. I would have to access my archives. It was quite a lengthy moniker." A pause. "So very many consonants."

"No kidding?"

"I am many things, Sam. A kidder is not one of them."

Sam laughed again, now adding more shampoo, working on the underside of Jane's head. "I think you have a great sense of humor."

"Andrew has said I've developed a dry sense of humor, though I confess it isn't due to any effort. Dean has added a great deal to that subset. I want to thank him, but he doesn't seem to like me."

Sam sighed. "He'll get used to you. He's just... it's anything to do with Andrew, I think... He sees Andrew as an obstacle, and he's hellbent on figuring out Jane's history."

"And you're not?"

Sam stopped scrubbing, thinking. He reached for the next pitcher of water Betty provided, began running it through Jane's hair, rinsing and prepping for conditioner. "No. No, I don't think I am," he finally answered. "I'll support her if she's interested. I'm sure she _will_ be. But I... I'm honestly just happy to have her around."

"I've been instructed not to share files with you - the _collective_ you, that is - until such time as Jane can be included. I _can_ share some things, as I've been privy to Jane's entire life. She was a kind and imaginative girl. She was shy, but grew into what Nanny called a 'damn bull-headed' adolescent and teenager."

Sam grinned, finger-combing conditioner through the bottom half of Jane's hair.

"Here," Betty said, and Sam looked up. On the large monitor, a yearbook photo had appeared. Jane was young, maybe six or seven or so, and Betty confirmed his guess, saying, "This was during her first complete year in school, after she'd moved to the Overturf farm."

"She seems happy."

"She was happy enough."

That response had made Sam sad. Jane had been the only happy _he'd_ had that summer, when he'd run himself ragged trying to find Dean. And as he moved onto the second pitcher to rinse out the conditioner, he found himself thinking back to a time when it was still somewhat early in his friendship with Jane, only around four months since he'd disappeared from the hospital and she'd initiated contact. Then came that day in the fall. The one he'd been anticipating and dreading...

.  
/ / / /  
.

Sam had double-checked the car for what was probably the fifteenth time.

The lids on the holy water were tight. The manacles were ready. There was nothing on him that could be snatched and used to pick them. Nothing in any of the hiding places in the interior of the Impala that could be used as a weapon against him. But he didn't leave right away, instead exiting the garage and going back to his room. He sat at the end of his bed. He stared at his phone, pulled up his contacts, chose her name, then hung up before it even really dialed. He stood. He sat. He stood. He sat. He clicked again, brought the phone to his ear, closed his eyes.

"Hey, Buddy!"

Sam opened his eyes, smiled.

"How's it going? Haven't heard from you in a bit, what's shaking?"

"Yeah, I'm... I've been crazy busy," Sam said, which wasn't a lie.

"You better not be stressing out that arm," Jane scolded him lightly. "You're so close to actually being an intact human again."

Sam chuckled. "I'm not, _mom_."

"And it's okay if you need more prescriptions, I mean it, you're not even close to over-doing it. I don't want to mother you, but I don't want you to worry about it, either. You know?"

"No, I know. But really, it's... it's much better. I've been wearing the sling, every day. And doing the stretches you showed me really made a difference."

"All right, then."

He got quiet for a few moments, and she let him. She was good about that. He did it often enough, she sure as hell would be. When he spoke, he began with, "Um, so..."

Keyboard clicks in the background. "Yessir?"

"I'm not bothering you or interrupting anything, am I?"

More rapid typing. "Oh lord no, I'm just playing catch-up on logging some data is all. I had a... it was a little sinus infection last week, but it threw me off enough to be aggravating. Fire away."

"Well, I... I think I'm..."

_Clickety-click-click-clickety-click_

"I think I managed to..."

_Clickety-click_

"I think I tracked down my brother."

It went pin-drop quiet on her end.

"And, uh, I think... I'm probably headed out, and it's just..." Sam trailed off, struggling with what it was he wanted to say; he hadn't planned it out, never could make himself. "Well, I don't know how long it will take and so, um, if you don't hear from me, or if I don't pick up... or don't call or text you back right away...."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm here. Whenever you get back. Whenever you need me, however few and far between those times may be."

He closed his eyes, gulped as she continued in that gentle tone with the southern twang, what had been his security blanket since the moment he'd heard her voice for the first time.

" _I'll be here_. You don't ever have to give me any reasons. Okay?"

Sam's eyes brimmed with tears and before he knew it, he'd sniffled and they ran over, he couldn't help it. And he didn't say anything for fear he'd start bawling. It hit him how awful that summer had truly been, hearing her give him a permission of sorts to just _be_. No expectations. No rules, no risks, no orders to let go.

Like he could _ever_ let go.

He simply couldn't speak. So she waited. Sam heard water running, then rustling, and a cabinet closing. She was making tea. He'd heard it before, and seen it happening, albeit sometimes crookedly, when they'd started firing up the face-to-face chats and her phone would tip from its propped position on the kitchen counter. The kettle had almost closed in on its whistle when Sam finally spoke again.

"Um, okay. Yeah. Okay. Thank you."

"What can I do for you?" Jane asked softly in reply.

"This. What you're doing. I'm... I know we haven't known each other long, but you're... you're pretty much my best friend. I guess I'm just trying to say... I'm thankful to have you in my life."

"Me too, Bud. More than you know."

.  
/ / / /  
.

Now Sam was running.

And as he'd done that morning, after seeing the picture of Jane as a little girl, he'd gone in his mind back to the day he'd set out for Dean. Thinking how that was the day he'd started to love her like a sister, well before he even realized how true it was. How it had given him hope that he wouldn't be totally alone should he fail to recover Dean, the _real_ Dean, not the changed Dean. Those memories mixed with a more recent one - how when Jane had changed into something otherworldly, she'd only reaffirmed what he'd felt from the jump, leaving no doubt.

_I did not leave you. I *will* not leave you._

The rise in his heart rate as he upped his pace seemed to make other memories from the final leg of his mission, the one that began the day Dean died, flood his mind. The way his stance on his brother had slowly evolved. _Devolved_. Because of the doubt.

What he'd said to Castiel...

_Who says he had a choice?_

Confidence intact.

What he'd said to Crowley...

_I will save my brother or die trying._

Confidence wavering.

Then what he'd said to Cole...

_He's a monster._

Confidence all but gone.

Every single one of his motives and actions had been focused towards the goal of recovering Dean. But then, something strange happened. When Cole had him in that barn, snatched him by the neck, pushed into his still-healing arm, and he heard himself howl from the agony it brought - Sam's mind had drawn him away from that moment and right to Jane.

Through the searing jolts, he'd almost felt like laughing. He could imagine the fast-talking chastisements she'd give him, fussing in a good-natured way when he would fess up to what he'd call "getting in a fight". And he could then imagine how serious her voice would get, throwing out short, exacting, clinically-based questions for him to answer: shooting versus aching versus deep pain, guiding him through describing precisely how much range-of-motion he had, how well he could grip certain household objects.

But the care, it was the _caring_ that would come through every single word. Even though he knew that _she_ knew he'd lied right out of the gate. When he'd repeated to her the same thing he'd repeated to others - that the shoulder injury was from a hunting accident. Andrew knew it was a lie, too, of course, and how _deeply_ the lie went. It was a mess, the whole thing. A complete and utter complicated mess.

Yet Jane still cared.

Sam had saved all of her texts, kept the phones that had long been retired, just so he could plug them in and read her words again. One in particular had been his mantra, keeping him diligent in his search for Dean. It had come minutes after they'd hung up one night, after the conversation where he'd told her that Dean had a pretty good scare on a job, that he and Dean had a falling out, that Dean disappeared, confessed that he was scared to death.

_Don't get discouraged, Bud. This won't be forever. You'll get there. Ain't nothing been done that can't be fixed.  
_

Crowley's voice echoed through his mind...

_Dean's your problem now. Again. Forever._

Sam sped up his pace, his calves burning, the memories now coming faster than he could run.

Dean's voice...

_Who winged you?_

His response...

_Does it matter?_

Then, Dean...

_Not really. I told you to let me go._

When their conversation had begun to go sideways, how he'd opted to channel Jane...

_It doesn't matter, all right? 'Cause whatever went down, whatever happened, we will fix it._

Sam pushed harder. Sweat poured down his face. He slapped it away, Dean's voice coming in louder now.

_Just let me go live my life. I won't bother you. What do you care?_

"What did I care," Sam muttered to himself.

_Winchesters... Fighting the natural order. Let me tell you something:_ _G_ _uys like me, we_ _ARE_ _the natural order. It's the way it was set up._

_There ain't much difference from what I turned into, to what you already *are*._

_Which one of us is *really* a monster? Hmm?_

Sam came to a dead stop, sucking wind, hunching over and grabbing his knees.

_Sam, he's not your brother._

...Castiel had said _._

_She is a product of John Winchester and Mary Campbell, just like the two of you._

...Castiel had said.

"Who are the monsters?" Sam whispered to himself, alone on the dark stretch of road.

It had bothered Dean to hear Castiel, Crowley, even the voice coming from Jane's lips in the chapel, imply there was more than one presence ---  _What is it?_   _Entities? Spirits? Souls?_ he'd ranted --- swirling alongside Jane inside her body. A duality. A completely different side. And this was despite that night in the bunker, when Sam had heard him loud and clear: Dean had spoken of _himself_ in that same discomfiting manner.

_There's no point in trying to bring your brother back now._

Sam's jaw clenched, determination setting in, and he felt a resurgence of energy, pivoting on his sneakered heel, starting a slow jog back towards the bunker.

_Look, I can't stop doing this._

**_Sure you can. You just stop!_ **

_This isn't my brother talking._

**_You never had a brother!_ **

Sam's hands clenched into fists as he pumped his arms, breaking into a run.

_I know you're still in there somewhere! Just let me finish the treatments._

Sam chuckled, mentally chided himself - he'd sounded like Andrew. The resonance of that thought made the chuckle vanish as soon as it had come. He went into a full-on sprint, the bunker now in sight.

**_I'm tired of playing. Let's finish this game!_ **

And on this, he and the Knight agreed.

Sam showered, then after he'd dressed, combed his hair and pulled it back, he stopped. He'd planned to distract himself further with a few hours in the range. But his eyes lit on the hairbrush he'd left on his desk. Maybe it was time to start conditioning himself back to his old ways, to wind down with peace and quiet. He'd decided to ask Betty for something to help him sleep that night, maybe _every_ night. He knew he'd be scanned, assessed. He hoped the rapport he'd developed with the so-very-human program would allow for some latitude. Visit upon him a little bit of non-angelic grace.

Sam needed to feel grace.

.

* * *

.

**CASTIEL**

Still shaking his head a bit out of annoyance with Dean, Castiel continued down the hall after they'd walked away from each other, slapped his palm next to the door, yanked it open. Then he caught himself before he slammed it behind him. Though he didn't technically need it, he purposefully took several deep breaths. It scared him, how quickly he seemed to be poised for action. How he'd felt the heat beginning to collect behind his eyes. Perhaps he should re-consider using his new set of lids after all.

Jane's thick hair was still damp from Sam's apparent morning washing. He could tell because of the head-shaped ring on the pillowcase - she was turned onto her side, not a bit of distress that Castiel could see, not in the monitors or on her physical person. He could've gone back to pizza, true, but that held the chance of another Dean confrontation. The thought immediately made him tense. May as well take a moment to braid her hair, get it out of the way in the event there _was_ an actual emergency. Do something innocuous to calm himself. Betty provided an elastic without being asked.

That damned _POP_ again, any time he touched her without gloves. It hadn't happened in the immediate aftermath of the chapel incident, when he'd helped Andrew get her settled. But ever since then, as Jane got better, it had gotten worse. It felt like Betty provided him with a new box of gloves every other visit. And though Jane had plateaued and seemed to be headed towards a bit of a backslide, the tiny shocks had gone from every-now-and-then to routine. Then they'd begun to increase in intensity, if Castiel was honest with himself. Seemingly in tandem with the ever-increasing episodes like the one which drew him from his dinner.

As he braided, being careful not to touch Jane's skin, he asked Betty a question. "Betty, you had mentioned these... episodes... had occurred before. How would you compare the frequency? The severity?"

"By frequency, do you mean literally, or do you mean timing?"

"Both, I suppose."

Castiel was included in the embargo Andrew had placed on Betty regarding certain specifics being shared prior to Jane's awakening, so he waited while he assumed the program was assessing how best to answer his question within the parameters of Andrew's instruction.

"Early on in her treatment, she experienced minor episodes, in kind with the ones of recent past. I would not classify them as severe. I had predicted as much, with relation to certain treatments. Until now, an episode has not occurred in years."

"To a lesser degree than these?"

"Much greater. In the aftermath of the last incident, Andrew had to move her from here to a more... buffered location. It was quite intense."

"Can you give me more detail?" Castiel prodded. It annoyed him how he had to push Betty, that there wasn't an intuitive nature regarding when to continue. He briefly wondered if Dean and Sam had felt the same about him early on. He could see how it would be taxing.

"I believe perhaps Dean would phrase it as - She put on a real Stephen King-level performance."

Castiel stopped, turned to the monitor, as if it was Betty's face. " _What?_ "

"Minus the pig's blood."

"I understood the reference, I'm just not-"

"I have visual documentation, if you'd like to see."

Castiel tied off Jane's hair quickly, then moved to stand in front of the large monitor. And something happened when he saw the characters at the bottom of the footage Betty had brought up. He was so focused on them, something about them causing an odd feeling to begin bubbling up inside him, that he hadn't paid close attention to the rest. He needed to sort things in his mind first.

"Betty."

"Yes?"

"I believe I'm going to need your assistance responding to what I am seeing... _feeling._ "

"Regarding?"

"Regarding a... sensation of familiarity. That I felt when I first met Jane, when she touched me. Then again in the chapel. When I touch her now...." And seemingly just by virtue of finally saying it aloud, the angel was immediately thrown back to some of the more poignant memories from the scope of his long existence.

Castiel had died a number of times.

Several had occurred in the presence of the Winchesters, others had not. Sometimes he had been quite powerful, and other times closer to mortal than he'd have liked. Regardless, he'd always come back, and in the more extreme times, the answer to the "how" of it all had always come down to his heavenly father. God. Chuck. Whatever the moniker du jour.

These. _These_ were the experiences nagging him, the ones he'd been subconsciously comparing to Jane's interventions at the chapel. Not because of severe wounds, not like the physical changes he'd had post-grace theft, not even when he felt himself slipping away under the control of whatever had possessed his body at any given time. Yet the _exact_ source of the familiarity... he couldn't tease it out.

"Can you think of another descriptive word?"

Betty had drawn him back to the present; they were constructing a list of applicable terms. He sighed. He _was_ trying - it was just indescribable. In a flat tone, he replied, "Fizzy."

"Fizzy. Added to list."

Castiel paced around a bit, thinking. "Taffy."

"Adjectives and adverbs, please. No nouns. Do you mean to say - Sticky? Gummy? Viscous?

"No, no," Castiel said, then thought some more. "I don't... I mean to say... pulling. Or stretching."

"Slowly?"

Castiel shook his head. But then he self-corrected. "Slow _and_ fast. Like I was... it was both, and neither."

"You are describing a non-Newtonian state."

Castiel frowned.

"Excepting the fizzy nature," Betty added. "You got me, there."

"What do you mean?"

"Non-Newtonian fluids are ---"

"That's not what I'm asking," Castiel interrupted irritably. But he made himself close his eyes, take a beat to calm himself before opening them again. He was an angel of the Lord, a commander of garrisons, one-time leader of the entirety of the heavenly host, and he was getting pissed at an other-worldly See-N-Say. "I apologize, Betty."

"Not necessary, but appreciated," Betty replied, which made Castiel grin. The program continually impressed. It was so life-like. _Human_. He was actually a touch envious.

"Might I suggest adding 'shearing' to our list of terms?" Betty asked.

Castiel nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I think so."

"And might we revisit 'fizzy'?"

Castiel sighed again. This was getting hopeless. Now he was pacing around even more.

"Perhaps tell me what it was _not_ , your 'fizzy'," Betty suggested.

"It wasn't buzzing, like an insect. It wasn't crackling, like a fire. It started just before that... that _shearing_ sensation... perhaps _tingling?_ I hesitate to describe it as a _shock_ , like an electrical event, but---" He cut himself off at a low sound, whipping around to face the monitor over the island. There was a pattern to the side of the now-smaller window holding the footage of Jane. It was a sound wave, though very subtle, no real peaks or troughs to speak of. It wasn't annoying, though - it had struck a chord. "Betty, what _is_ that?"

"This is undetectable to the human ear, including most inhabited by demons, angels, or otherwise. You, for instance, could not hear the first nine examples I have been emitting since the beginning of our present topic of conversation."

"So--"

"What you hear now is the sound of exactly ten bonds of a molecule breaking. Sample: Organic. Sub-sample: Nucleic Acid."

Castiel stared, fixated on the wave.

"Would you like to hear increasing numbers? Combinations? Move on to lipids, proteins, carbohydrates?"

"I suppose... this is not quite right. It  _is_ close, but..."

"I see. We'll stick with a factor of ten. Try this, Castiel."

He gasped, and asked, "Can you... make it... can you add more?"

"Certainly."

Castiel felt his mouth drop open a bit in genuine astonishment, coming closer to the monitor. "What _is_ that?" he asked again, though this time it was almost whispered.

"Covalent bond disassemblage. Specifically, carbon." When Castiel didn't reply right away, Betty elaborated. "This world is one of carbon-based life. I believe our human friends would say - I took a shot in the dark."

"No, you were being logical and methodical. Something I am not accomplishing of late," Castiel responded. A brief pause, and the angel's brows were knit again, and he asked, "What did you mean when you brought up non-Newtonian fluids?"

"I suppose I meant it as more of a relatable concept to what you felt. The shearing sensation. A dual existence at a point in time. Application of quick force to such a state of matter will be met with force. It is seemingly solid. A slower approach, however-"

"-and it seems more like fluid again," Castiel finished.

"We can be many things at once, Castiel. I am a program, true; but I have been an educator, a student, an assistant, and at times even acted as a confidant to Andrew. You, yourself - an angel, a guardian, a brother, a friend, healer, warrior, leader, watcher. Perhaps the answer you seek is that you experienced another state of being."

_Not dead, yet not alive,_ he thought. Several moments of silence passed, and Castiel's gaze ultimately fell on Jane. "I've experienced it before," he said quietly. "Before that night. Before the chapel."

"Being revived, you mean?"

"Revival," Castiel muttered. He was thinking on what Andrew had said - shotgun approaches versus healing in a way that taught the parts to repair the whole. He turned to the monitor again, looking at the frozen images of Jane in the paused recording. "Can you tell me more about this time, the state _she_ was in, during this recording?"

"Jane was under sedation for a liver biopsy and draining excess fluid from the pericardial sac. Andrew took the opportunity to work on other matters, which would be followed by healing the incisions before she was awakened."

Castiel studied the image, noted the extensive bandaging on Jane's right arm, beginning below her shoulder, stopping at her wrist; Betty noticed.

"This instance involved strengthening the bones in the right arm so they could better resist stress. Despite several documented angles of what is a short event, this is all that remains. Would you like me to begin?"

"All that re... what kind of stress do you..." he mumbled, but then became mesmerized by what was unfolding before him. It was, indeed, short. "Play it again, Betty?"

Betty did so.

"Could you make it play continuously, please?"

Betty once more obliged.

It was in the lab, the same lab in which he stood, lights dimmed, views coming from both sides, directly in front of, and over the stretcher.

Jane had sat up poker-straight, her then shoulder-length hair bobbing forward around her face with the momentum. Her chin lowered, then a stern expression emerged. Her jaw dropped, and the vocalization erupting from her throat reminded him of a banshee's call. Perhaps a siren's song. Perhaps a bit of both.

Castiel observed that her eyes were not the deep brown of present day, rather they were more green, perhaps even hazel, something like her brothers'. Then he watched that bluish-black color suddenly flood her irises as her pupils began to dilate. The light hitting her eyes made them glint like those of a shifter. And the light was coming from _her_.

Both of her arms had shot straight out to the sides, hands slightly tilted upwards. He had a better view of the unbandaged left, but could see, peeking from the edges of the bandaging on the right, that this arm featured the same phenomenon. Like the color that would erupt from behind angel eyes, that glow with a hint of blue, energy itself seemed to surge through every vessel in her arms, crawling up the veins in her neck, in the capillaries along the edges of her face. A scant glow emitted from each winding trail, and surrounded her palms and fingers.

"Betty, this may sound... could you... the carbon - is it possible to play that sound in reverse? And slower?"

"Here."

Castiel had blanched then, felt physically startled, jumping backwards as he tried to absorb it all. He'd bumped into the side table, almost toppling it over. He didn't even hear the picture frame as it hit the floor, cracking the glass. The  _sound_ \- it had made the proverbial lightbulb go on. He had finally made sense of the characters at the bottom of the monitor.

The angel had begun to pick up on the characters associated with the various lines and arcs representing Jane's status over those months, the ones that surrounded her blood work, ran alongside the imaging of her organs and bones. Letters and words were still outside his wheelhouse, but he'd gotten a decent handle on the numerals. He was gradually learning to translate them more and more quickly in his mind, double-checking with Betty every now and again to confirm his understanding. So he knew he was right: i was a date and a time.

Andrew had told Castiel early on - no matter where he might be, no matter where Jane was being cared for, when it came to her, Andrew and Betty were always on what he called "Jane Time". Wherever she lived, whatever city or state, that was the baseline. This recording's date and time would have followed suit. And Castiel knew where he was the day this happened, the time this happened, at the _exact_ _moment_ Jane had erupted with such a force it vibrated the entirety of the lab, shattered screens, warped metal, cracked wall and tile, made sparks fly from the machinery, bright as stars, and then completely blacked out... everything.

"The fields were subsequently re-modulated," Betty offered, continuing to loop both the recording and the sound wave for him as he remained in a stunned silence.

That was it. That shearing force, that low frequency, the sensation of disappearing. He hadn't been merely pulled apart physically on that day, the day Jane had unleashed whatever she held inside. No, this familiarity wasn't from the dying. This wasn't the feeling he'd experienced more than once, that of an archangel blowing you apart on a subatomic level.

This was the feeling of coming _back_ from it.

The destruction had not been what he would've described as painful. Nor was the return. His destruction that day was so fast, he had no time to react, to process, to _feel_. It was a sense of _nothingness_. The coming back together was the process running in reverse, only slower. A process that _did_ allow the opportunity for some memory-making. It was like a spray of fine mist being drawn back into its bottle. Evaporating rain reconstituting itself into falling drops. Light and airy, Castiel recalled, though he couldn't speak to how frightening either may've appeared to an observer.

In the chapel, it was eerily the same, yet not. As she'd restored him, he'd felt everything fading back in. _Pulling_ back in. Heard those same sounds that rang in his ears now. But it was pricklier than that day in 2010, out at Stull Cemetery. The vibration seemed more intense, the sound louder, and perhaps that was because he had not been _completely_ disappeared, just divided into pieces. Not alive, yet not quite dead. He couldn't be sure. And he didn't know how to ask.

So Castiel looked down at Jane one last time, said a quick goodbye to Betty, and before the program could respond, he dashed up the stairs, making himself disappear.

.

* * *

.

**ANDREW**

Andrew was frustrated.

Betty noted this, spoke to him in an accent that was beginning to work his nerves, advising he should consider a regimen of rest, getting some regular amounts of sleep.

"No," Andrew replied sharply, but then he sighed. "Forgive me, Betty."

"Apologies are not necessary, but appreciated. Would you like to talk to me about what is bothering you?"

"You _know_."

"Perhaps you'd like to tell me, anyway."

Andrew huffed, ran his hands through his hair. "Uggghhh," he grumbled. "I just - _nothing_ is bringing her out of it, and now she seems to be regressing - muscle tone, bone density - she _has_ to get up again. And it's as if the stasis isn't holding, and you know as well as I do where these fits can lead."

Now Andrew walked to the stretcher, ran a finger over one of Jane's heavily bandaged wrists, evidence of the recently removed access. Because he'd thought she was on the mend. On her way back to him.

"If I may - re-insertion for additional sedation seems the right course to mitigate these episodes," Betty said.

Andrew was still looking down at Jane, felt himself getting incensed once again. "Stop speaking until I speak to you," he told Betty in a gruff voice. "I don't require encouragement or reassurance or advice from a program."

But the longer he looked at Jane's calm, peaceful face, Andrew softened. They were far and away from fairy tales. Yet before he realized it, he'd bent at the waist, edging closer and closer. Perhaps if he'd been more rested, he'd have realized how wrong it was. How inappropriate. How he should've felt shame at even entertaining the thought. But he kept on, planting his hands on either side of her head, pushing into the pillow as he brought his face to hers. It was a chaste kiss, barely there at first. Then he leaned into it further, actually closing his eyes, pressing harder with his slightly open mouth, lingering on her bottom lip as he pulled away.

When he opened his eyes, Andrew found Jane's staring back into them, fury practically shooting from the deep blue darkness.

A hand shot out and clutched his throat so tightly, he was immediately gasping and gagging. She began to sit up, pushing him back as she rose from the stretcher, and he was frightened. The aperture-like qualities of her eyes were fixing into place - even though Jane had not been taught this skill. Nevertheless, they were organizing themselves into a deadly position, the shimmering specks gathering, the intensity of the glow rising higher and higher. And just as the beam was coming...

Andrew awoke with a start, almost falling off the stool he was perched upon. He was sitting at one of the counter tops, reviewing Jane's test results on a tablet. As always, he was on a seemingly never-ending search for answers.

"Andrew, there's been another episode."

Betty's voice jerked him completely from the fog. "What!? Why did you let me fall asleep?" he cried out, now jumping up and rushing to the stretcher. Jane made muttering sound, then rolled over onto her side. Away from him. It had become a regular event. He couldn't help but take it personally.

Andrew adjusted the blankets and her old quilt from home, then looked at his watch. His eyes widened. "Damn it, Betty! It's coming up on nighttime!"

"You needed the rest," came the matter-of-fact response.

Andrew shook his head in frustration, brought his hands up and rubbed his temples. "Betty...." he began, a touch of warning in his tone.

"I am not your mother, nor your wife, I understand," his trusty assistant interjected smoothly. "I have, however, been your partner in your endeavors for quite some time, and you have not reached this state since-"

"I know!" Andrew cut in.

"I can pull the data from the archives if-"

_"Betty!"_

"Castiel is approaching. And I am here. Jane will be watched over. Get out of here."

Andrew rolled his eyes, but a little smile came to his lips. "One quick stop. Then I will."

"Mose is in the war room, but should shortly retire to his room." A brief pause. "A reminder that I can track your location, so-"

"I _will_ ," he repeated, this time in a firmer tone. Betty took the hint and did not continue.

It was the middle of the night when Andrew once again woke up, startled to the core, only this time in the apartment, on the pull-out sofa. Sweaty and suddenly claustrophobic, he pulled off the blanket he'd wound around himself, and jerked off his shirt. Still breathing hard, he flopped back against his pillow. It happened every time he didn't let himself fall asleep on his own, every time he tried to make himself sleep when he was stressed, been that way since he could recall, and he could recall most every moment of his life. But as he aged, the cause wasn't the stress from the ups-and-downs of youth.

It was that one nightmare. One from very long ago. One that followed him no matter where he'd traveled. Then his thoughts, as always, drifted away from himself and back to Jane. He hoped she was sleeping more soundly than he'd been, that _she_ wasn't having any nightmares. But nothing seemed to disturb her, seemed that even through the coma, her circadian rhythm stayed on point.

Andrew wondered if Ezra somehow anticipated Jane's degeneration - this backside, this unusually long sleep, which wasn't the result of an induced stasis on his part. And the episodes - the building and cycling of energy, even the random outputs, would serve to ultimately strengthen her, but not after the stress, the  _mess_ , from the chapel. It had turned his carefully laid out plan of care for her upside down. All the contingencies he had in place for her chronic conditions - the ones she'd been plagued with since birth - even _those_ seemed out the window now. Jane's bones were getting more and more porous by the day. Then Ezra with that damn cane. She wouldn't have needed it for the muscle weakness - that was easily addressed, if she woke up soon, of course. How that ancient death-dealer predicted this was beyond Andrew's reckoning. And he had no idea how to reach his old friend to ask.

He finally stood, ran his fingers through his hair out of habit, paced around a bit. He ended up standing in the doorway to Jane's room, staring in. Andrew felt himself slowly easing over, leaning against the doorjamb. Over the years he'd spent on earth, peaceful sleep via allowing it to happen naturally had remained the only method that worked for him. As it turned out, another way was simply sleeping under the same roof as Jane. It had been months upon months ago - perhaps even a year or two - but he could picture the last time it happened, down to the detail, a movie playing on a screen right in front of him.

As he'd told Dean last they'd spoken, Andrew did make sure to feign sleep at the apartment once to three times per week. It had been easier back in Tennessee, in the larger space, where he'd had his own room. When they'd moved to Kansas, Jane had insisted on taking care of all the household bills, including the rent, and he'd agreed. He knew how important it was for her to feel as self-sufficient as possible, even though technically her money came from him.

But he'd begun to regret it, after noting the various printouts of options gathering in the trash with notes of rents and deposits scribbled on them that were quite high. She was looking for three-bedroom options close to the hospital - one for her, one for him, and one for her office. It wasn't in the game plan at this stage for Jane to stress her body by working anywhere but from home. So he'd told her to go for a modest two-bedroom, didn't matter where, and they'd get a fold-out sofa. He'd assured her he'd be at the lab so much, he'd be catching sleep either there on his old camping cot, or at the hospital, in the bunks scattered around the facility for hard-driving interns and med students. It just made more sense, he'd explained. Jane had begrudgingly agreed.

They hadn't moved there for proximity to Sam - at least, not at that point. She knew he lived in Kansas, but the prescriptions she'd called in for him had been to a different pharmacy in a different city, each and every time. There were a few in states that she couldn't call in under Andrew's license - he'd told her he'd ask former colleagues to take care of it. Of course, she didn't know he had the means to make it happen anywhere across the globe. The Winchesters and their cache of identities had _nothing_ on him.

Sam actually didn't reveal his exact address, even as several years passed, til right before their first meeting. Supplies for his wounds had gone to a p.o. box, and Jane simply didn't want to press him. When he'd finally given her the information, Jane had been over the moon with excitement. Even more so when she saw how close they actually were, never realizing she had been guided to her brothers all along. By her best friend. By her betrayer.

Andrew glanced towards the front door, getting lost in the memory of that night, that last night he'd slept soundly. He could see himself easing through it, setting his satchel down gently and nudging his sneakers off by the door. He'd glanced around, on the sofa and into the office, just in case, though he knew Jane would've been in bed by that hour. Her door was pulled to, and he could hear the soft humming of the IV pump beyond it.

Andrew watched the rest of the memory play out in his mind's eye....

.  
/ / / /  
.

Padding his way into the kitchen, he smiled at the neon sticky-notes on the door of the refrigerator.

_Eat what's on the top shelf please, BEFORE you get to the second!_  
_Big hug - J_

Opening the door, he peeked under the foil wrapped dishes on the first shelf - chicken and pasta on the left, steamed vegetables on the right. Underneath, on the second shelf, a large mixing bowl - and under that foil, a huge batch of banana pudding. She'd also made a pitcher of sweet tea, Nanny's recipe, but minus the extra cup-and-a-half of sugar. Even Jane, who'd been raised on it, had called Nanny's version _liquid diabetes_.

Though initially it was mostly to keep his cover intact, Andrew discovered he _did_ love Jane's cooking. And it was still good, though she couldn't do it up like she used to. It was an odd comfort to him, one he couldn't scientifically or logically explain, and not for lack of trying. He'd run a number of tests on himself once he'd experienced it enough times to know it wasn't a coincidence. It simply wasn't in his nature, in his _make-up_ , to have such deep-seated reactions to what seemed so trivial, so basic. Not having a solvable problem was Andrew's least favorite thing. This particular one, he was comfortable leaving unsolved; but he couldn't stop trying to solve Jane. Part of him wished he didn't think of her as something _to_ be solved.

So he retrieved a glass, poured some tea, then got a large spoon, ate a few hefty mouthfuls of the pudding straight from the bowl, left the covering purposefully askew, grinning to himself thinking of the reprimand he'd get for it in the morning. Jane would see the evidence of his naughtiness, huff, then purse her lips together, cross her arms, tap her foot and give him a _look_ before he'd give her the ol' puppy eyes and she'd break into a grin.

"I just don't know what I'm gonna do with you," she'd declare, whap him playfully with a dishtowel if one happened to be in her hand, and then they'd repeat the process on other mornings, again and again and again.

Andrew frowned as he turned to the sink, dirty spoon in hand. The tools and pots and such she'd used to make his dinner were drying in the rack nearby. A damp sponge and scrub brush were lying at the back, near the tap. She'd had to waste precious energy washing by hand. He cursed under his breath at their lazy apartment management. Placing a palm over the dishwasher door, the flaws in the motor were remedied - and the internal mechanics given an upgrade while he was at it. He'd be damned if she had to extend herself any further than she already did for him.

He put the empty glass and spoon into the dishwasher, making a mental note to tell her he'd fixed it. On second thought, he opened the junk drawer, pulled out a screwdriver and put it on the counter, completing the ruse. Walking back out, Andrew spotted the full basket of folded laundry sitting on the floor at the other end of the sofa. He scanned it, felt his jaw clench - _damn it_. Every single bit was his clothing. Jane had spent her entire day on him. He knew it. He'd noticed the last time he was home that her hamper was approaching over-flow, and that basket was another sign she hadn't thought about herself, her own needs, only his. A meal and a load of laundry would have been one of a million tasks in an average person's day, but for Jane, this amounted to long hours of labor.

Andrew watched his memory-self come up beside him, push open Jane's not-quite-closed door and look at her sleeping form. He took his memory-self's place as it faded away.....

.  
/ / / /  
.

He stood straight, coming out of his leaning position, imagining Jane there now, how he'd find her most nights if he couldn't make himself stay in the lab til dawn. He stepped into the room, and after a few moments, went in more, coming to stand at the side of her bed. In this imagining, she was wearing one of his old Vanderbilt shirts, from back during med school. The color was faded, the fabric well-worn, tiny holes pulled at virtually all the seams. It was fake. _Everything_ about him was fake. Betty had created that shirt and aged it in seconds, just before he'd had to pack it up, only so he could unpack it - and a hundred other objects of deceit - in front of her, back when he and Jane had become roommates for the first time.

Jane was not in the middle of the bed, rather lying to the side, her laptop open and taking up central residence instead. She'd watched a movie, perhaps, but it was more likely she fell asleep to a playlist of instrumentals, a regular nightly routine to block out some of the sound made by the IV pump. The screen had long gone dark, the battery completely drained. Andrew gently closed it, picked it up, set it on her dresser, re-charged the battery halfway for the hell of it.

And then he carefully climbed onto the bed.

Her left arm was atop the covers, due to the long tubing coming from it, but Andrew made sure to adjust the rest of the duvet and sheets as best he could to keep her nice and warm. Jane made a contented humming sound, angling herself in his direction, turning her face into her pillow, snuggling in a little more. He smiled. 

As he laid his head down on the pillow next to hers, Andrew could smell the detergent and softener of the shirt she wore. The touch of lavender from the soap she used. The hint of coconut oil in her lip balm. Mint from her toothpaste. Then just her, just Jane.

"I miss you so," he whispered, reaching out to touch her cheek.

His hand went down to the mattress.

.

* * *

.

** MOSE  **

After Sam and Dean had both exited the room, Mose changed his mind, opted to take his dinner to his room, finish up his work on his laptop. He still didn't like too much of a wide open space, at least, not an empty one. The near-agoraphobic who needed a big crowd; strange, he supposed, but it made sense to him. He liked being able to fade into a mass of people.

He ate his food, drank down the soda, and was absently listening to the rest of the podcast. It had been almost over anyway, save a few more updates in the final segment. He shot Max a quick text with his approval.

They'd convinced Mose that he could bring his equipment from his now-cramped room out into the war room to give him more space. He'd been tinkering non-stop for the last few days, wiring and re-wiring, then adding, then subtracting. Never loud, never asking for more - that was Mose. It wasn't pride that kept him from asking for help, he just seldom needed any. His makeshift set-up at the bunker had turned out better than he anticipated, given the equipment in the war room and other electronics and appliances that were scattered throughout. It boggled his mind how the place was even functional. It looked like a museum.

There was still some of the older equipment within his make-shift broadcast station. Neither of the brothers cared when he'd asked for space, telling him to dismantle and re-purpose anything he liked. Good thing, too - Jane's random outputs would've fried some of the more expensive equipment he'd had Max package up and send along. Betty had been a great help, and though he was hesitant initially, after the first half-dozen spurts from Jane that included a fried motherboard and a tablet that would start to smoke when plugged in to charge, enough was enough. Mose had gotten tired of going down to the lab so Betty could do repairs. He'd more than happily agreed to let the program have full access, remotely attend to anything amiss if he didn't sense Jane's distress quickly enough to start shutting the important things down. Plus, he hated that lab. It was too clinical. Brought back too much.

It wasn't the first time he'd allowed an intrusive intervention that ultimately worked out. But he could count on one hand the number of times it had actually gone well. Three. That was the number, only three times it hadn't come back to bite him in the ass after allowing an outside party complete access to his life. Before Betty, the next most recent time was decades prior, letting the Winchester brothers in, albeit slowly.

But way before all of that, there was Missouri.

Missouri was twenty years old when he was born, and he had been told by his grandmother for as long as he could remember that they had instantly taken to each other. His parents knew that as soon as they hit the door, they'd have to hand him over to Aunt Missy. She'd called him "babydoll" well into his adulthood, telling him that's what he was - like a cherubic, perfect, hand-crafted porcelain doll. Mose had seen the pictures; he _was_ cute.

Missouri had moved in with her ailing mother, acting as caregiver after a minor stroke had left Gran just under the line of moderate functioning with activities of daily living. Mose could tell it bothered Gran, and it had bothered him, too, that the older siblings had left these duties to the youngest. Missouri should have been gone from there, been out in the world, perhaps finishing up a graduate degree or well on her way to having a family of her own. It still amazed him to think of what a wizard - truly - his Aunt Missy was with mathematics. She'd instilled a love of numbers and problem solving in him. It had served him well; really, it had saved him.

But if Missouri felt contempt for her situation, she certainly never let on. She welcomed him - literally - with open arms. Because when his parents couldn't handle his... difficulties... they'd brought him to Lawrence. Gran had lived a few more years until another stroke took her, then Aunt Missy kept the house, and it continued to serve as a bustling center of activity for all the cousins and siblings and aunts and uncles most weekends. Except for his parents. They couldn't seem to stay far enough away. 

They had never understood. It was Missouri who understood, who knew what was happening inside him, the moment he hit the threshold that first day; first, last, depending. His parents hadn't even walked him to the door. Mose distinctly remembered the scathing look she'd given them, hauling his weak and underweight body into her arms before she carried him inside. It wasn't that his parents were neglecting him physically, there was always plenty to eat. But the stress, the lack of sleep - nine years old or ninety, those things take their toll.

Mose had already been run through the gamut. The pediatricians tapped out early, turned the reigns over to the otolaryngologists, who then called the psychiatrists off the bench. No one could figure it out. And then Mose made what he considered the biggest mistake of his life.

He'd told Dean the story once, about the last time he'd trusted someone - at least, prior to Dean himself. It came up again on a subsequent visit, when John had stayed late talking with Missouri in the kitchen. The two had been throwing back beers like breweries were going to stop production, kept at it for quite awhile, and it had eventually just made good sense for the Winchesters to make the visit an overnight. Mose was around three years older than Dean - at the point of this visit they were 15 and 12, respectively. But once they'd connected the summer prior, he'd actually grown to like the younger boy. Dean seemed worldly.

And most definitely not afraid of the stranger things in life.....

.  
/ / / /  
.

 

The blanket fort was ready to go in the back bedroom, the one that used to be Gran's room, but was now Mose's, filled with twin beds and music posters and a desk where he tinkered with all sorts of radio and CB parts - not to mention being filled what he later learned were objects of a different variety, ones hidden from the naked eye. Hex bags and sigils and other sundry he still collectively referred to as "Missy's magic spells" were inside the walls and under the striped paper atop them. Mose wasn't concerned with the details, as long as it worked.

And his room was the quietest place in the house. Since she'd worked her magic and moved him into that room, there was no need for the record player, or having a fan running constantly, or any of their other go-to tricks. It wasn't perfect, but it was the closest to peace he'd ever been.

"I like this new room, it's bigger," Dean said quietly, once they'd gotten settled in their fort with flashlights and comic books and an obscene amount of M&Ms mixed into a large bowl of popcorn.

They were both speaking in hushed tones, as Sam had gone out like a light as soon as he'd laid down on a sleeping bag next to Mose's dresser. His mouth was slightly open, the thumb he'd been sucking beginning to fall out. His eyes were still puffy and his cheeks still flushed from crying most of the day.

Dean sighed, looking at the escaping thumb. "I wish he'd quit that baby stuff," he commented, though there was only mild annoyance in his tone. Mose knew how much Dean struggled to protect Sam from the real world. And the world under that one.

"What happened?" Mose asked, then waited on Dean to finish chewing and swallowing the massive amount of popcorn and chocolate he'd crammed in his mouth.

"Dad made him cut off his hair today at the barber's. It was way past his collar, and the front parts wouldn't stay behind his ears," Dean explained. "He kept getting food in it somehow." Dean rolled his eyes, ate another handful.

They'd had a full dinner. Mose always suspected Dean ate in advance, like he was prepping for a period of doing without. He'd never liked John for that. Never mind the fierce reds and sometimes dark purples that would radiate off the man, the frowns, the tense tones that would accompany them. John would be friendly to him, but Mose steered clear. Missy picked up on plenty, but didn't hear or see the auras as clearly, as _vividly_ , as he did.

"So... what happened at the new one? The new doctor?" Dean asked him carefully.

Mose shrugged. He didn't mind Dean asking; after all, Mose had brought it up during their last phone call. Missouri had given Dean permission to call collect, but only once a week, and then the boys could only speak for twenty minutes. She'd have to pull him off every time. But it wasn't fair, he'd tell her, because Dean could only call every two and a half or three weeks - and sometimes even longer.

He'd had the double beds in his old room at Gran's since the very next day after he'd arrived. Missouri paid extra for the quick delivery. She had pulled him into bed with her that first night, and though his mind wasn't totally calm, it was still the best sleep he'd gotten in years. She'd always held out hope that Mose would make more friends, wanted those friends to feel welcome at their house, have sleepovers like normal kids do. Never really panned out. And it didn't matter, once he had Dean.

Mose pushed his thoughts away, focused on the question. It was a fair question. A legitimately _concerned_ question. That's what friends did.

"He was nice," Mose reported, taking a handful of popcorn. He paused, looking down at the bits of melted M&Ms. "I mean, that other one was that lady. You know, the..." He trailed off, putting his snack in his mouth.

Dean nodded while he chewed his own fresh handful. He knew. He knew how his friend regretted talking to that other psychiatrist. How the last person his friend had trusted was the one who'd brought the diagnosis hammer down, the last nails in the coffin. He knew that this was, Mose believed, what ultimately started the chain of events ending with his parents leaving him. He would later learn that while the criteria had greatly improved for children with presumed psychological issues, putting labels on children so early in their development was frowned-upon, even way back when he was young. She'd have never gotten away with it today; she shouldn't have gotten away with it  _then_.

Missouri had done some checking in the years that followed. Apparently, the young psychiatrist, a pristine-appearing young women with a crisp British accent, had been hungry for a publication, the topic of which didn't seem to matter, as long as it involved children who heard voices. Mose was labelled with various primary diagnoses - schizophrenia with auditory hallucination chief amongst them. Then came dissociative identity disorder, or as they called it then, multiple personalities. She'd even thrown in sociopathy, misinterpreting his reclusive nature as a sign of severe apathy. And then Mose's personal favorite - narcissism. One of his calming and focusing methods was to watch his mouth move in the mirror while he ran through the Fibonacci sequence. The first helped his eyes ignore the auras; the second to keep the sounds, the echoes of voices, a little more at bay.

All those labels, and he'd been only six years old.

He hadn't told Dean, or Missouri for that matter, what life had been like bouncing around so many psychiatric wards for much of his post-toddler years. How the auras coming off the other patients rattled his eyeballs, how he could hear their shrill thoughts crying out from everywhere, not to mention patients of the otherwordly variety. The ones trapped on the grounds. The ones who'd never left.

"Where you guys gonna be for Christmas?" Mose asked abruptly.

Dean, who thankfully had grown some measure of an ability to read a room, and went along with the subject change. "I dunno. Dad's going after something else."

"To do with your mom?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't think so."

Mose frowned. "Well... stay here. You and Sammy. Missy won't care."

Dean glanced over at Sam, then back. "We can't. Then Dad would be alone."

Mose somehow had the sinking feeling it would be his friends who ended up alone.

So it was the next morning that Mose advised a well-rested and inquisitive Sam on how to wrap a Christmas present for his father. A feast of too-sugary cereal sped by far too quickly. Then it was time for them to leave. Missouri hugged John. Mose and Dean gave each other a few shoulder punches. Mose begrudgingly shook John's hand at Missouri's prompting. Sam hugged Mose. Mose glared at the car as it rolled away.

That had been the last time he'd been around the brothers for any substantive length of time - and actually, it was the last time, period, that the Winchesters had been at the house. Mose wasn't surprised to hear Sam didn't have much in the way of memories from when he was young, particularly that visit. Dean told him later that Sam had been decently traumatized not long after that, upon learning what John was really up to. His introduction to the family business, as it were. Years upon years later, after the brothers had gone to see Missouri about such business at John and Mary's old place, she'd called him, filled him in. And then he got a text from Dean at 3 A.M., saying he'd recognized her house, though of course the decor had changed. It had all come flooding back, hitting him in his dreams, waking him up in a sweat. Dean hadn't even said hello, just launched into questions.

_Is Missy's name short for Missouri?_

_Yeah. Heard you saw her._

_And? You didn't think to tell us she was a freaking psychic? A real one?_

_Your dad was there._

Then there was radio silence for almost a year - Mose never _had_ been known for his subtlety.

.  
/ / / /  
.

Mose was driven from his recollections by a knock. He'd long closed his laptop, and had been staring down into the open bedside table drawer at his hearing aids. Missouri had struggled to pay for more and more advanced versions through the years, blessings and hexings applied to them by supernatural specialists with skills beyond her own. All to save her babydoll any further pain.

Mose closed the drawer quietly, then opened the door to find Andrew standing before him. He ushered the other man in without a word, then sat on the edge of the bed. Mose had maybe exchanged ten words with Andrew over the past three months. Didn't see much point when he didn't have much to say.

"I'm sorry we haven't had time to get acquainted, Mose - may I call you Mose?" Andrew asked.

Mose nodded. "Sure, man. Whatever you want."

Andrew nodded as well. "I wanted to tell you that we - you've interacted with Betty, I believe."

"Yeah. Betty's good people. Helped me get a decent rig set up here."

Andrew smiled. "I noticed. It looks great, really. And Betty has my permission to give you any further assistance you require. Don't hesitate to ask."

Mose eyed Andrew skeptically. That's what you do when you've had his sort of life - you wait for the other shoe to drop. It always would.

Andrew reached into his bag, pulled out a small box, walked over a few steps and set it down on the bedside table as he continued. "So, Betty and I have been tweaking the dampener element of the fields in and around the bunker. We've detected subtle improvements in your status, but I wanted to double-check with you personally. Didn't want you to think we'd forgotten about you."

Mose's eyebrows shot up at the assertion, letting his eyes follow Andrew as he moved. "No. Didn't feel forgotten..." Mose responded, but then trailed off, his attention now focused on the box.

"There are two small discs inside," Andrew said, and Mose returned his attention to his visitor's face, listening intently. "Jane already has a version of them, she's had them since she was three years old. I upgraded them the night you arrived, as a matter of fact, but the longevity when applied to adults is virtually permanent."

"Stop for a second, man. What _are_ they?" Mose asked, a touch of irritation to his voice.

"Apologies," Andrew said with a small chuckle, running a hand across his forehead. "I'm ah.... just.... left-of-center right now."

Mose looked him up and down. Circles were under his eyes, his blonde hair was mussed, and his typically immaculate clothes were more than a touch wrinkled. "You need some rest," Mose stated.

"Not the first time today I've gotten that advice. I plan to take it as soon as I leave you."

"So... those things?"

"You'd put them here," Andrew said, pointing behind his ear, above the lobe. "By the time you wake up, they'll have been taken in, under your skin, but deep enough you won't feel them, won't even know they're there."

Mose frowned. "What, so I won't need my hearing aids? Those'll take care of everything?"

"Not everything." Andrew paused, studying Mose carefully for a moment before he continued. "I have similar implants, so that Betty can communicate with me anywhere I may be. There are some... areas... where it is limited, so we've developed a bit of a shorthand. The issue lies in the areas I need to go that cross certain..."

Mose watched Andrew search for the words, his patience waning, close to being gone, when the doctor finally spoke again.

"Mose, my theory is that you are somehow tapped into more than just spirit chatter here on this plane - it could be coming from The Veil, as well. I also suspect you might be picking up on what Castiel and others refer to as 'angel radio'. Perhaps even the more antiquated communication methods - séance , ouija, blood rituals, summonings, psychics ---"

Mose's brow began to furrow.

"--- and if that is so, your reach could exceed Betty's."

"So you want me to be... what, a human walkie-talkie?" Mose replied, his tone conveying both disbelief and suspicion.

"Yes," Andrew answered simply.

"What do you mean by 'planes'?"

"Have Dean and Sam mentioned their journeys to heaven? Hell? Purgatory?"

Mose nodded.

"All different planes. Some areas of those places allow for physical manifestations - you could reach out and touch another inhabitant and they'd feel as solid as you and I are now. Other areas are more..."

Mose's eyebrows slowly raised, waiting on him to continue; it was like pulling teeth to get anything resembling real details out of the guy.

"The best way I can put it - they are constructs. A _sense_ of feeling solid, intact, experiencing actual physical sensations. But either way, when I go to certain planes, there's a barrier that is exponentially more powerful than anything I've developed here, or anywhere else."

Mose stood now, eyes narrowing into a near-glare as he responded to all he'd been told. "So if I can tie this up: you want me to put some futuristic, alien, _whatever_ technology in my body, in my _head_ , be your - what, your conduit to the other side? And even _then_ it won't block all this crap out?"

"If you want me to help figure out what's been plaguing you? Then, yes. Ideally, and with your permission, I'll be able to switch them off in my lab, give you sedatives for your comfort, then try to isolate each frequency one by one. Perhaps get recorded data, let Betty work on translating them."

Mose made a scoffing sound, a wry grin coming to his face. "Boy. Wow. _Wow._ Dean was right, you've sure got a pair."

"Dean hates me. Nobody's surprised," Andrew responded flatly, then chased it with a sigh. "Mose, I wish I had more assurances for you. Your family - Missouri in particular - came up on our radar long ago. Betty has a background program that's been constantly running, for _many_ years now, looking for this specific type of gift ---"

" _Gift?!_ " Mose exclaimed.

"--- and we got our first promising hit in your bloodline. For whatever reason, it jumped up to a potential viability, one that could mean.... could be..."

"Could be for you to use," Mose finished for him.

"But I _do_ want to help you. I want to get you to as peaceful a place as possible. Let you expand your life, experience the things you may feel you've missed out on."

Mose grew cross. "And where was your _help_ when I was stuck in psych ward prison? Getting electroshocked, which, by the way, only made it worse? Made me 'tap in' to even more?"

Andrew kept silent.

"Do you _get_ what it does to me? When too much electrical activity, too much loose power, is just floating around, in storms or from ghosts peeling out of the walls or coming up through the floor? When whatever _communications_ you think I'm hearing are whizzing around the atmosphere? I've been protecting myself from the constant nattering driving me batcrap crazy, but all these tricks and potions and hex bags and warding and sigils?" Mose paused to huff in irritation. "It's _useless_. I know the guys swear by them, Missy sure as hell did, but they're _garbage_. Or maybe my wiring's shot."

"Or maybe you're _already_ acting as a conduit."

It felt like all the air got sucked out of the room.

"And if _they don't know it_ \- Mose, this could be a _huge_ advantage," Andrew went on, stepping closer to him, clearly trying to tamp down his excitement at the very thought.

Mose considered this, processing aloud, saying, "What if they - whoever _they_ are, demons, angels, ghosts, I don't care - figure out I'm a human wire tap? What's to stop them from... I don't know, overloading the line? I'd think I would just... that it would..."

"It would very likely shut you down."

"No restarts? No replacing the motherboard? Adding more ram?" Mose asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

He received a slow and solemn head shake in response.

"Would these discs, these implants, would they help with stuff like that? Protect me from the big ones? Because if these barriers or whatever's going on with these planes are as tough as..." Mose trailed off upon receiving another of those head shakes.

"I cannot with 100% certainty guarantee that acting as my conduit will be without side effects. Not at this point. I'd need to learn more about---"

Mose turned his back on Andrew then, no desire to continue the conversation.

"I'll leave you to think about it," Andrew said quietly, and the door closed shortly after.

Mose flopped down on the bed, hands behind his head, staring straight up, watching the blades of the ceiling fan lazily spin.

.

* * *

.

**DEAN**

Dean followed Castiel down the hall. "Hey," he said.

Castiel's pace didn't falter.

" _HEY!_ " Dean repeated gruffly, grabbing onto the angel's arm, causing him to stop.

" _What,_ " Castiel replied in a terse tone, his expression one of complete irritation.

Dean frowned. "What _is_ it with you lately, huh? You've been turning into a real dick ever since Jane brought you back, I'd think you'd be happy to have, what is this, your 300th go at life?"

Castiel glanced away briefly, seemingly regrouping - for the moment, at least. "I am _tired_. I am _hungry_. I can do _nothing_ to help your sister but give her supportive care. So I ask again, Dean - _what_?"

Dean stared at him.

"I have to check on Jane," Castiel said, turning and walking away.

Dean once again followed after. "I wanna know what headway you've made, digging around for Jane's genes or DNA or whatever's in Judy the Robot-"

"Daughter Judy," Castiel interrupted, his pace not impacted in the slightest.

"Who?!" Dean spat back.

"Judy Jetson was the daughter. Rosie was the robot maid. And Betty is not a maid, that belittles the-"

"Will you _stop_?! I want to know if you're ever gonna answer my question about what the hell you meant when you said 'her species'. It's been _months_ , Cas!"

Castiel stopped, turned to face Dean. "Still don't know."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Still don't know? That's... I don't even..."

"As I told you the last _million_ times you've asked me: it was an intuitive remark, a statement made from my gut, off the cuff, _all the things_ , and _boy_ do I wish I could take it back."

Castiel once again resumed his walk towards the door to the lab; Dean's jaw dropped, momentarily stunned, but he quickly caught up.

"I don't even know who you _are_ anymore, Cas," Dean said. "You hardly talk like yourself, act like yourself - what the hell is going on inside you? _Talk to me!_ "

"What's going on, is that I have reached a tipping point with you," Castiel responded, this time turning so quickly he ended up practically nose-to-nose with the hunter.

Dean's teeth went into a clench involuntarily, and his neck flushed. He felt his fists balling up at his sides. But then he abruptly turned away, stalking back down the hall, muttering under his breath.

He took a shower, but it didn't help ease the tightness he felt all over his body. So after he got dressed, he retrieved a random bottle of liquor, not bothering to even look at what he grabbed, and retreated to his bedroom. He found himself staring at the top drawer of his chest as he took a large gulp. Grimacing, he looked down - the flavored organic vodka Sam liked to put in mixed drinks that Dean considered rotgut. He could've gotten a different bottle. He could've gotten _three_ different bottles. Yet drinking himself to sleep was suddenly not seeming like an option, and so he pulled a few items from the drawer, mentally crossed his fingers that he'd be alone, and went to see Jane.

The first thing he noticed while coming down the stairs was that he was indeed alone; the second thing he noticed, as the lights were raised once his foot hit the floor, was the state of the picture frames.

Early on in Jane's sleep, the rolling metal stand had been gradually re-purposed from procedural usage into more of a bedside table. Amongst other things, Jane's charm bracelet and - bizarrely, to Dean - children's story books had turned up on one of the counters, so it was Andrew's collection of photos that had taken up most of the table's surface. Dean was genuinely glad to see things of hers present, especially the clearly well-loved quilt atop her, but not-so-much when it came to those pictures - all of her and Andrew, all in thin, identical metallic frames. They made his chest hurt like it was on fire inside.

He'd looked through his own collection of pictures. None had Jane, of course. When they were waiting on the pizza, Sam had mentioned the one he'd been shown earlier, the one of Jane in grade school, but Dean didn't need to see it; he had already been imagining.  And it had made him sad. It had made him _angry_. That same little girl should have been in _their_ pictures, in _their_ albums. Holding Sam, and playing with him, being sung to sleep by Mary, being twirled around by John. Jane wasn't there, and Dean still had no explanation. But despite that, he wanted their faces - his, Sam's, John's, Mary's - to be amongst the first things she saw when she woke up. So he'd chosen the one that spoke to him the most, the one that was taken not too long before Mary died. The one that was his favorite. The off-centered one, outside in the yard, with Mary holding baby Sam, John holding him.

If Dean was drunk enough, if he squinted hard enough, he could imagine it wasn't really _that_ off-center. That some of the space on the right side, with the tree in the background, was taken up by another child. Her hair wasn't quite as dark, her eyes were green, and there were freckles sprinkled across her nose. She was riding on John's back, arms thrown around his neck, peeking around to look into the camera. Another chubby-cheeked face with a huge smile, parked right above Dean's own.

Then on one of his many pit-stops at a liquor store during that first month, he'd also stopped at a neighboring store. He took too long picking out a bottle of nail polish, but then took about five seconds to pick out a thick wooden frame. He knew the dimensions of that photograph by heart. Dean would stubbornly move some of Andrew's photos to one of the counters each time he came to see Jane, then made sure his photo was front and center. He'd always come back to find the other photos returned to the table, but never blocking his, just organized neatly with the rest. A gesture of inclusivity, he supposed; so he'd starting moving _all_ of Andrew's photos, because screw Andrew.

Now, however, Dean frowned, seeing the table was empty, that the far counter still held the frames he'd moved there the day prior, and that _his_ was face down on the floor. Picking it up, he noted the glass had been completely shattered. Dean huffed loudly, feeling himself get angry at Castiel all over again, wondering if the angel's increasing crankiness had drifted into petulance, if he really would've broken the frame out of spite.

"There was an accident. If you'd care to place that in one of the trays, I'd be pleased to fix the cracks," Betty said.

Dean blinked, hesitated before he responded. He hated dealing with that thing, and he sure as hell wasn't going to make it seem like one of the gang by calling it a person's name. He also hated it because it lost the bet, missing Jane's wake-up call by quite a large margin. But this wasn't about him; this was more important than him.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, that's..."

"Face down, please, Dean."

Dean placed it on the tray, and after a split-second glow from the underside, reminiscent of a copy machine, he picked it up and was greeted by a pristine piece of glass, devoid of any dust or fingerprints. For the time being, wary of it getting broken again, Dean set the frame on one of the counters. He pulled the tray table across the stretcher, and Jane's still form, setting a bottle of nail polish and a slightly larger bottle of remover next to it. Bringing a stool to Jane's side, he opened the remover, picked up her right hand. Then he let out a frustrated sigh.

"Do you require a removal tool of some sort?"

"What?" he snapped in response to Betty's question.

"Cotton balls?"

Dean responded begrudgingly. "Yeah." And as an afterthought - "Thanks."

A handful appeared in one of the trays, so Dean leaned up and over, snatching as many as he could without touching the tray, sat back down. Disdain for Betty aside, he simply didn't like being in the lab. Didn't like any part of him being close to anything that might do something to him. Even though he knew it didn't matter where he was; things had always been done to him.

Dean got busy removing deep red nail polish from Jane's fingernails. During his grillings of Castiel, plumbing the angel's mind for every word Jane had ever said to him, knowing Castiel was his best source at that point for the truth, her comment about missing being able to paint her own nails had come up. And Dean had found himself latching onto that, for reasons he couldn't quite understand. Maybe just because it was something simple about her that he could easily accept without internal conflict.

Because Dean _had_ taken to heart what Castiel had said that night, the night after the chapel, when he and Sam had fought in the hallway over all their crazy theories about her past. That Jane needed them, sister or no. And though his lack of memory of her presence in his childhood still fought him hard at every turn, Dean had all but let go of the "no". 

The past month and change, he'd thrown himself into repairing the walls she'd damaged. Prepping a bedroom for her, one in between his and Sam's, removing the sink to make room for a fairly large closet. He'd painstakingly designed and constructed it from carefully chosen pine with lots of great knotting, put a long mirror on the inside of one of the doors, staining it to match the hue of the headboard almost exactly. He didn't allow Sam to help with any of this, beyond the trips they'd made to the apartment and a storage facility. They had gathered up boxes of random items, including clothing and shoes she'd packed away due to her inability to dress herself in them any longer. Dean chose to keep faith that one day, she could.

His latest project was repairing the pipes and faucet of the damaged shower, though he wasn't quite done - still needed to finish up the plumbing before he re-tiled. Thank god for Men of Letter hoarders who'd kept bin after bin of extra tiles, an assortment of every kind throughout the bunker. He'd also gotten one of those curved shower curtain rods that hung from the ceiling, installed it in one of the back corners, so Jane would have privacy. Sam had said her heaven would include a huge bathtub - he'd pumped his brother for everything she'd said to him, too - but Dean hadn't yet found one to his liking, when a long, deep, clearly antique clawfoot tub was just _there_ one day. He'd run out to the hardware store to replenish a few supplies - plus a stop for a six-pack and another color of polish - and when he'd come back in to resume his work, it was waiting to greet him.

Andrew. It pissed him off that Andrew would pop into the bunker at will. And that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Dean carefully scraped excess polish off onto the edge of the bottle's opening, then with equal care drew it slowly down Jane's pinky nail. He'd gotten quite good at this from doing it several times a week when not out on a case. But he'd not reached 'great', and he wrinkled his nose, frowning at himself when a bit of paint edged onto her skin.

"Cotton swab?" Betty offered.

This had been his life for weeks now, rotating between painting Jane's nails, getting a space ready for her, going on the occasional hunt, then starting all over again. It was all he could do. Well. Not _all_ he could do; certainly not all he _had_ done since Jane went all Snow White on them. Minus the dwarfs.

There were still cases to deal with, sure. Hunter duties didn't stop for personal dilemma. But for a large chunk of his time, Dean had continued on a trajectory that he'd initiated the night they'd returned from the chapel, when he'd gotten almost knee-walking-drunk with Mose. It eased temporarily for a few days, when Andrew assured them she was healing as expected, said with confidence it wouldn't be but a few more days, maybe a week. But Dean got back to walking a drunken line when, in his eyes, Jane's never-ending slumber meant Andrew was once again proven to be a liar.

Dean wanted to make time pass quickly. He did it the only way he knew how. And so it was that around month two of Jane's absence, Dean found himself sitting in a police station many towns over from the bunker. Sam was his phone call, and he hadn't picked up. Didn't matter that it was in the middle of the night, Dean knew exactly where he was, why he didn't have his phone - his brother was out running. Sam must have thought Dean was unaware of how obsessive the younger man had grown, that it had moved beyond the morning and evening runs he'd allowed Dean and Cas and Mose to be privy to. That, and the weight-lifting, and the gun range. But Dean couldn't exactly throw stones in the distractions-that-skirted-the-line-of-self-harm department.

Hunting worked only temporarily. Sex hadn't helped. Drinking was beginning to lose its effect. Fighting was his next go at a release. And now he was the recipient of a DUI after crashing his baby into a telephone pole, something he'd avoided for quite awhile. Borrowed time living - that was Dean, in a nutshell. It had happened near a rough bar, during a bootlegger's turn that had gone awry.....

.  
/ / / /  
.

Dean hadn't been sitting in the harshly-lit interrogation room, blankly staring at the wall with the two-way mirror, taking in his bruised jaw and bloodshot eyes for very long when the door opened. He'd been pulled from the drunk tank by a snot-nosed cop to await a line-up. Apparently the bouncer he'd roughed up at the bar was none-too-pleased with the beat-down Dean had unleashed upon being confronted for hitting on the bouncer's waitress girlfriend, and the dick wanted to press charges. The same policeman appeared in the doorway now, informed Dean that his lawyer was there, then stood aside. And in walked Andrew.

"Thank you," Andrew said to the policeman, perfectly polished, not a gelled-back hair out of place. He wore square-framed glasses, a pristinely tailored dark grey suit, carried a leather portfolio in his hand. He certainly looked the part, and Dean knew firsthand how well he could smooth-talk his way past anyone. Taking a seat across from Dean, Andrew set the likely empty portfolio on the table, removed the glasses he didn't need, slipping them into the breast pocket, and then settled in. Arms on rests, hands folded over his lap, crossing his legs - the very picture of ease. They stared at each other for several moments, well after the click of the door and the sound of footfalls going away.

"Lawyer, huh? Figured I'd need one of those some day, and I guess I kinda figured they'd be a fake," Dean said, finally breaking the silence, then he crossed his arms, flopped back in his chair.

Andrew seemed to consider this before he replied. "You know, the meaning behind 'attorney' is simple: one who represents another's interests. And I've been doing that, for quite some time."

"Oh, really?"

"Very really. You honestly believe no one ever decided to take another look, a really _thorough_ look at the fire, once John Winchester's name began popping up in relation to suspicious incidents? No one ever contacted child protection services on him? That you and Sam have never been inches away from being tracked down via the lengthy trail of fingerprints and DNA left in your wake? Clear images from any number of closed circuit security feeds? Not to mention the many creditors you've defrauded, federal agents you've impersonated?"

Dean glared as his answer.

"I must report that while your brother is quite intelligent, a proper hacker he is not," Andrew continued. "I've taken the liberty of rendering any IP addresses you've ever utilized essentially nonexistent, at least for the level of tech currently available to the world. And, just because, in the more recent past I resolved your connectivity issues. The bunker may as well have had its wi-fi run by a hamster on a wheel."

"Well, bang-up job, Andrew. Glad the damn internet connection's kicking it, though it woulda been great if all the other people and demons and spirits and imaginary friends and whatever the hell else that've shown up maybe got put through a little screening process before you let 'em waltz in."

Andrew let him vent, watching as Dean uttered a bitter chuckle, ran a hand over his face, then went on.

"And hey, glad you stopped by for _this_ arrest, but you missed a few of my more impressive wanted-dead-or-alives. Lemme see..." Dean began ticking things off on his fingers. "The shifter son of a bitch who borrowed my look and went on a murderpalooza. Oh, and the Leviathans that got away with it later, that was super. The FBI agent that was able to track us down - who, by the way, was actually a really good dude - he and the roomful of local do-gooders probably deserved more than death by Lilith. Let's not forget the Secret Service black site, real fun ride, and then the ---"

Andrew's patience was wearing thin, so he cut the other man off. "I'm not omniscient, Dean. And I'm not your personal guardian angel, as it were. I do have a life of my own."

"What's your point? You want a thank you?" Now Dean sneered. " _Thank you_."

"What I'd _like_ is your understanding that while you may disagree with my methodology, I am not your enemy," Andrew replied calmly. "I never have been."

Dean regarded him carefully, taking a beat to choose his words. "And, ah, how far back does that 'have been' _go_ , exactly?"

"Neither you nor your brother exist," Andrew said bluntly. "The Dean Winchester who had an impressive juvie record, which _paled_ in comparison to his dive into hunterdom and demonhood? He died overseas in a random bar brawl, likely not so different than your performance tonight. The Samuel Winchester who was a likable pre-law student, but never seems to have any friends who call to catch up anymore? It's because he died on an Annapurna trek years ago."

"Wow," said Dean. "You got a vivid imagination."

Andrew chuckled but he had a touch of a nasty glint in his eye. "No, Dean. Those personas are _your_ and _Sam's_ creations. It must be exhausting, trying to maintain them."

Dean didn't respond, so Andrew went on.

"Any mug shots taken or warrants issued have gradually succumbed to mysterious hard drive meltdowns and misplaced files. Any investigative journalists who got a wild hair and did some digging found themselves hitting dead end after dead end after dead end, because there's nothing to find but residual traces of past lives." Andrew leaned in, stared Dean right in the eye. "What you hunt? Not even their _collective_ energy compares to what it takes to keep you from the real world. You and your brother are the ghosts."

"Well this ghost is gonna haunt your ass til I start getting some answers. I may not have your reach or your strength, but if you've been stalking me my whole life, then you sure as hell know how relentless I'll be."

Andrew took a moment, continuing to look Dean dead-on while he seemingly considered his proposition. Then he blinked, both his gaze and his posture easing. He settled back into his chair, ultimately responding, "I won't answer things that Jane needs to know. The things that are of a more personal nature for her. As I've already said, I'll do that when-"

"Yeah. When she wakes up," Dean finished for him, in a flat tone. Andrew didn't try to reassure him that Jane would wake up, and Dean had to admit that it tipped the scale a fraction towards _Respect_ and away from _I Hate Him With the Hatiest of All Hates_. But only a grain of sand's worth.

"As long as we have that understanding. So. Ask."

Dean chose a starting point lower on the scale than Andrew had anticipated, though judging by the eldest Winchester's demeanor, it seemed quite important to him.

"Where do you sleep?"

Andrew's eyebrows raised. "I'm sorry?"

"I get that you don't sleep a lot. Cas... well, Cas didn't use to, either. But you had to at least fake it for Jane. So I know you _can_ do it. And there's just Jane's bed in your apartment."

"You sound a bit like Jamie."

This time it was Dean who leaned forward, that already deep voice shifting to hit an impossibly low register, and there was not a tremble, not a quiver, not a stutter when he spoke. "No, I sound like her big brother, you irredeemable puke. I want to know that when you do _your_ job, and she wakes up with a fixed body, if she's also gonna wake up with a broken heart. Because that's _my_ job."

Andrew was admittedly both taken aback and impressed. "Jane is the best friend I've ever had," he responded quietly. "And know when I say that... it's immense. Comparatively, I've known her only for ---" he snapped his fingers "--- that fractional bit of my life. Even so. She's incredibly loyal. And she has this... this unwavering faith in me. She does everything in her power to let me know I'm appreciated. I hadn't really experienced all of that coming from just one person til her."

Dean remained silent.

"And I have _never_ crossed that line with her, Dean. There are things I know I cannot give to her... _be_ for her... I wouldn't want anyone to break her heart, especially not me."

Dean sat back, but crossed his arms once more and his gaze remained steely.

"When I was away, which was most of the week, Jane believed me to be sleeping at the hospital or my lab. When I was with her, I slept on the pull-out sofa," Andrew finished.

Dean seemed to accept this as the truth, as he went on to another subject. "How old are you?"

"I couldn't say."

"Try."

Several moments passed. Andrew's brow creased, and Dean couldn't tell if he was calculating out to some insane decimal point in his mind, or if perhaps he was afraid of the answer being too frightening - so Dean opted to throw him a bone.

"Were you around for... I don't know. Dinosaurs?"

"Yes."

"For the start of life?"

"Yes."

Dean took a moment for a deep breath, narrowed his eyes slightly.

"May I jump ahead to where I think you're going?" Andrew asked, receiving a slight nod from Dean. "When in the beginning, earth was without form, and void? Darkness was upon the face of the deep? Spirit moving on the water?"

Dean's eyes went back to their normal size. He knew his face was expressionless. He thought it felt numb.

Andrew let out a soft but wry dash of a chuckle while he looked down, picked a bit at the corner of the portfolio, tacking on, "Yep."

"As someone who's actually had a few run-ins with God? And been lied to by you? I bet you'll understand if I don't believe a damn word of that," Dean responded, hoping he'd spoke calmly and evenly, though he wondered if his tone had betrayed him; _nervous_ didn't exactly cover the chills that were running up and down his spine or the increase in his heart rate or the sudden cotton-mouth.

Andrew brought his eyes back up. "My colleagues and I weren't present for all of this world's evolution. We were... spread a bit thin for a time. But we worked diligently to guard you. Those of us who are left... who are able... we guard you still."

"From where? From heaven?"

"Ah. Heaven. It _was_ our home. Then we had to leave. It would have endangered its occupants if we had remained. And though we wanted to... we couldn't bring them with us."

Dean made a frustrated sound, muttered under his breath, then uncrossed his arms, glancing around for a moment to regroup before looking back to Andrew and pressing on. "So is that where you took Jane from? There, or from some other place you and these _colleagues_ were supposed to be babysitting?"

Andrew's gaze hardened ever-so-slightly. "I take it Cas shared what he overheard?"

"You take it right."

"You're starting to head in the wrong direction, Dean. All I can say is that Jane will need to be awake for me to determine where that statement came from."

Dean's eyes narrowed again. "You're not denying it. That she came from somewhere else."

"This insistence that she is not your sister, that she doesn't belong - you need to find some way to work through that before Jane wakes up."

"That a threat?"

"If you like."

"Or, what?"

"Or, to borrow Sam's words from the last time you chose to engage me with this attitude - you'll need to find something else to do."

Dean's face and neck flushed with anger, and his tone matched. "Where the hell do you get off doing what you've done to her without her knowing?"

Andrew grew flushed as well, and Dean thought he saw a faint glow quickly fly across his eyes. 

"I _have_ Jane's consent, Dean. I've had it for well over a decade," Andrew said, and with great intensity. "Would you like to see the paperwork? Because I have it in writing. Paper forms spanning years, for each and every new treatment. All with her signature. Feel free to have Cas confirm it isn't faked."

"You're telling me Jane gave you permission to turn her into-- to  _change_ her into ---"

"She was fully aware of the risks, that the experimental treatments she was signing up for were totally off the books - according to most every law of every country, would technically be illegal. Believe her to be your sister, or don't - but you can believe that she was actively dying. She still _is_ , unless she receives aggressive treatment, and every day."

Dean stared. A distinct sort of helplessness he knew quite well washed over him from head-to-toe. And he said one last, quiet, somber thing.

"You have her trapped in a cage."

.  
/ / / /  
.

Dean's memories were interrupted as tiles began to raise under and slightly above head of the stretcher, moving offside, revealing several metallic grates. Towels and pitchers of water appeared in the island trays. Then he heard footsteps behind him.

Sam was coming down the steps, wet hair slicked back into a low ponytail, but in non-athletic wear for once. "Oh Betty, I'm not washing again," he said, holding up the hairbrush he carried.

"Okay, Sam."

The towels and pitchers disappeared, and the tiles moved back into place. Sam didn't miss the slight frown that passed over Dean's face at the sound of his light interaction with Betty. He rolled his eyes, tried to shrug off his annoyance at Dean's annoyance, asking, "Where'd the music go?"

Dean huffed and looked up. "It knows to shut that crap off when I walk in."

Sam gave him a _look_. "That music comforts Jane."

"It's classical _crap_."

"There are more modern compositions Jane enjoys," Betty chimed in. "I can provide several selections. McCreary, Zimmer, Richter ---"

" _No!_ " Dean said emphatically, briefly knocking over the nail polish bottle but quickly recovering, standing it upright and huffing louder this time. Then, returning to a normal volume, he said, "No. I like the quiet."

Several moments passed before Sam broke that quiet. "That's about the color of her eyes," Sam noted, referring to the dark, almost metallic blue polish Dean was painstakingly applying.

Dean didn't respond.

"I mean, her... the other ---"

"I know what you meant."

Another moment of silence.

"You've got a real collection going," Sam tried again.

"All the ones in Jane's stuff from storage were too gooped up. And too girly," Dean said without looking up.

Sam thought on how all the shades Dean had picked were reminiscent of car-related colors and not exactly Jane's taste, if her wardrobe - past and present - was any indication. Candy apple and fire engine red. A chrome-like silver. Once when Sam came in to do her hair, he'd burst into laughter at what had been Dean's most recent choice - shiny Baby black.

"I like this one the best," Sam commented, pulling another stool to the head of the bed. Before he sat, he gently lifted Jane's head, rolling the pillow a bit under her neck. "Hey, stop a sec, I need to pull her up."

Dean did so, then stood. "Need my help?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "Sure."

Dean hooked his hands under Jane's arms, Sam keeping a hand on the pillow and a hand under her head. After a three-count, she was positioned, her head tilting back and mostly off the top edge of the stretcher. They sat, each attending to their tasks quietly for several minutes.

"So, uh - did you happen to turn her over when you got down here?" Sam asked.

"Nope."

"Jane adjusts herself before you come to visit," Betty informed them.

The brothers shared a brief glance of mutual surprise.

Sam sighed as he unraveled the braid in Jane's hair. "Cas does this every time," he commented.

"Probably gets in his way," Dean replied absently, took the next finger in line between two of his own. He noted he hadn't bumped her skin since the first one, and a nearly undetectable grin of pride came to his lips. But he didn't start polishing right away, instead watched as Sam began brushing out Jane's hair, starting from the bottom. "We should think about cutting it," he said, pointing to the wavy ends with his free hand.

Sam stopped mid-stroke, looking up at him as horrified as if Dean had suggested kicking puppies for sport. " _No!_ " he said, just as emphatically as Dean had earlier.

Dean brought his eyes up to Sam's, amusement all over his face. "Okay, Samson, pump the brakes. Nobody's cutting anybody's hair."

Sam still seemed disturbed at the very notion, but looked back down, resuming the brushing as he replied. "I just think... I just think she should wake up to as much normal as she can, you know? And she can make her own decision, if she wants to cut her hair. I mean, we're already kinda..." He trailed off - he could've sworn Jane made a faint sound, one of contentment. He'd long ago noticed the lack of erraticism in all the wave patterns on the smaller display any time he'd brush her hair, wondered if Dean noticed the same during his time with her, during his own ritual.

They didn't speak for awhile, no real sound in the room until Dean moved his stool to the other side of the stretcher, ready to start polishing Jane's left hand. "What were you going to say? About what we were already doing?" Dean asked after he'd sat and picked up Jane's hand. He set to work removing the old polish. It still gave him pause, how cool her skin remained.

"Yeah. How we're... how _you're_ getting everything fixed up."

Dean looked over as he responded, though Sam didn't meet his eye. "The walls needed to be repaired, Sam. And I didn't see you jumping in."

Now Sam _did_ meet his eye. "You know what I'm talking about. Picking the locks on the apartment and on her storage. And going through her stuff, hauling it over here. The bedroom, the closet, the bathtub-"

"Hey, that wasn't me."

"It is a cast iron tub with French provenance, constructed circa ---"

"Shut _up!_ " Dean practically bellowed in response to Betty's offer of information.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed.

Dean was annoyed, but he followed Sam's nod to the monitor, to Jane's vital signs. Several smoothly flowing lines were now peaking higher, a few others featuring a succession of quick spikes. Dean squeezed Jane's hand, ran his calloused thumb across her knuckles in silent apology - those, and her fingers, were the only parts of her hands not bandaged. The irregularities ceased immediately.

"You can, uh... you can put that music back on if you want to. But keep it low," Dean muttered, returning to removing the last bits of old polish. Betty complied, and faint instruments gently wafted into the air, and he spoke again, quietly this time. "You think she won't want to stay?"

Sam's brushing slowed. "I don't know," he answered in an equally hushed voice.

The brothers continued in silence. The painting complete, Dean re-positioned the tray table, returned the photograph to it, making sure it was angled towards the head of the stretcher. Then he carefully arranged her hands on her lap, making sure her fingers weren't bumping into each other. The smooth surfaces of her nails were never smudged when he'd return; he'd have to ask her when she woke up if she knew how she'd managed to keep her hands still til the polish dried. When he was done, he raised his eyebrows at Sam.

"Almost done," Sam said, answering the unspoken question.

Dean nodded. He gave the tip of Jane's nose a gentle, barely-there tap. "Night, kiddo," he said softly, and left.

Sam had kept brushing, watched him leave, brushed more til he was satisfied Jane was completely relaxed. He'd gotten Jane re-positioned in bed and tucked the covers around her, paused, pulled a few places loose, re-tucking, perhaps stalling, before finally getting up the nerve to ask Betty for that favor. Then he gave Jane's forehead a quick kiss before exiting.

.

* * *

.

In the lab, with everything done for the night and with no other visitors expected, Betty had dimmed all the lights, put the temperature to something warmer, made the sounds of the music a touch louder.

Sam had gotten ready for bed and then stood by his desk, looking down at two distinctly different syringes, one of which would soon be used and one that would go into a drawer with others.

Castiel had sat himself on one of the roof's ledges, opting to skip prayer, instead waiting on answers to find him, knowing somehow that the sunrise would find him much more quickly.

Andrew had lain on Jane's bed for hours before finally peeling back the covers, crawling under them, burrowing deep into the mattress and pillows, breathing in what was left of her until he feel asleep.

Mose had tossed and turned, back and forth, off and on, but after the last turn he did not toss again, instead staring at the small box on the bedside table.

Dean had almost laid down but, as an afterthought, grabbed his phone, typed in one of the names he could recall, then eased back onto his bed, closing his eyes and listening to somewhat haunting strings as he drifted off.

Morning arrived, and all remained still as it began to bleed into the early afternoon. While Andrew continued to catch up on what seemed like eons of sleep deprivation, the men of the bunker gathered, drank coffee, ate a late breakfast. Everyone seemed glad the night had come and gone, more than ready for a new day.

And in the lab, Betty raised the lights, put the temperature to something cooler, but did not decrease the volume of the music; rather, it was turned off completely. The monitors followed. The lights were incrementally beginning to raise even more. An unseen timer was halted, its counter at three months, four days, eleven hours and thirty-two minutes, and a gentle voice filled the room.

"Good day, Miss Winchester. My name is Betty. It is a great pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	13. Murder Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean accepts his family is changing; Sam shows more signs of keeping yet another secret; Mose suspects trouble back home; Jane and Crowley find some common ground

* * *

 

 _"In the dark here, I remember your loving hugs, urging me on. I can still see you gathered -  
_ _such an unlikely family - and I know I can find my way home." - Christine Saxton, writer: Family_

 

* * *

.

**NOW**

Family, if you had been watching the Winchester brothers out and about during this time - and, to be accurate, the _entirety_ of the time they'd had Jane in their lives - you'd have never imagined she even existed. As mentioned, they worked hard at making sure anything said aloud about the newest addition to their lives outside of their home was kept hushed, kept brief. They planned on making sure any mention of the constant stream of world-crashing events didn't creep too far inside their home, settle too closely to her. It was agreed, it was understood, and it gradually became reflexive, a muscle memory, a gatekeeper auto-pilot. Their minds, however, remained another matter.

And so, perhaps little subconscious bits would leak out. They _are_ , after all, only human. These things are to be expected. Feel free to go back into the archives - I'm sure you'd manage to find something. Lives are messy, after all, and their stories sometimes unfold that way.

For now, _our_ story continues as all of the bunker's occupants convened in the garage following their late breakfast, some cleanup, and showers all around. Something-or-other had happened to the Impala on the most recent road trip, and after that was repaired, Dean had inexplicably opted to move on to the engine.

 

* * *

.

**THEN**

Even though he'd missed his crack-of-dawn run, Sam had eschewed one for the afternoon, instead choosing to hang out with Mose and Dean in the garage. The car's engine had been fine as far as Sam knew, and it wasn't as if Dean didn't have plenty of projects in progress, but he found anything garage-related relaxing. Sam and Mose figured they'd lend a silent sort of support, chatting and drinking beers with him while he worked.

Problem was, Dean had managed to render his beloved Baby unstartable.

Castiel had joined them for a few hours, actually in fairly good spirits, so good he'd joined them in the breakfast and the beer-drinking, despite the fact that the latter did absolutely nothing for him. The angel was more like himself - brooding, certainly, and perhaps overly thoughtful, but participatory, helpful. Earlier when they'd all pitched in to prepare the meal, a friendly debate came up regarding what they'd eat, breakfast food or lunch food, given the hour.  

And Castiel had been quite solemn, possibly downright depressing, when he'd absently commented, "Breakfast is whenever you wake up."

In other words: normal.

So perhaps it was partly because he bummed them out, and partly because a sullen Cas was a routine Cas, that Mose made biscuits while they cooked up an entire carton of eggs and more bacon than could be eaten in one sitting. And they talked about old times while the angel listened quietly, picking at the food, deep in thought. Then he seemed to shake himself out of it, bits of the 'new' him coming back out.

One of the more startling changes was his voice. Sam and Dean each privately thought they were losing their minds at various points over the last three months, til one brought it up to the other and they were mutually relieved that it wasn't only them. And when they brought it to Mose, he instantly confirmed their observation. It was subtle, he said, but yes - the pitch was slowly rising, still in the baritone range, but the heavy, almost resonant, occasionally menacing quality was shifting to more... well, to more like his former host's voice.

This was more evident when Castiel suddenly switched gears during the meal, participating in the conversation, even asking questions about their opinions of each other as children, asking what kinds of things they would do, questions he certainly knew the answers to - in general, he was just making small talk.   

Castiel had essentially kept on point when they were out and about working cases, only the occasional spurts of anger, which was nothing new if Sam and Dean were honest with themselves. Still. Given what seemed to happen, the way he'd drop back into this new guise when in the bunker, it definitely made them keep a wary eye on him. Case in point: now in the garage, his conversation was limited to almost clipped responses, though he'd uncharacteristically laughed several times. He'd get fidgety, almost agitated. Then he'd abruptly left when his latest bottle was empty, volunteering to throw the others' empties out. And off their angel went, down the stairs and out the door, saying over his shoulder he was going to check on Jane, perhaps have a nap.

Dean sighed from under the car, edging out on the rolling platform then sitting up, shaking his head at Sam and Mose, saying, "He's still not just, you know, _going_."

"We know what that's about, yet?" Mose asked, then took a sip of beer.

Sam shrugged. "He'll do it when we're out. So, who knows?"

"I'm done asking him questions for now, he about took my head off yesterday," Dean said. He tossed a wrench to the tool caddy and it sent a sharp clank into the air as it hit against its metal friends.

"What had you asked him?" Sam inquired.

Dean opened his mouth like he was going to answer, but closed it again, briefly shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead, adding a black grease smudge to match the ones visible through his light beard, where he'd apparently scratched his jaw at some point. "It was just something about Jane," he finally replied. He stood up, grabbed his beer and was drinking while he perched on the edge of the driver's seat, used his free hand to try and start the car.

It hinted at the possibility of turning over, then gave up.

Dean once more closed his eyes, and took a larger swig before climbing back out. Sam was encouraged he didn't get upset. They'd all apparently been in dire need of a good night's sleep. Luckily, it seemed they'd all gotten one. For the most part. Dean grabbed another few tools, then laid back down, rolling under the car, back to his tinkering.

Mose tilted at the waist a bit, his eyes following Dean's form as it rolled further away. "Dean, whaddya call that?"

"What?" Dean answered.

"Your big skateboard?"

"Creeper."

Mose gave Sam a blithe look. "No need for insults, I was just asking."

Sam snickered.

"Ha, ha," came Dean's dry response.

"You know, if that thing had been made in the last century, had something close to modern parts, I probably could help," Mose pointed out.

"If she were more modern, I'd be dealing with crap all the time."

"Like not starting," Sam said in a low voice to Mose.

Not low enough.

"I heard that!"

"Wonder if there's some portable version of Betty, get an x-ray or something, see what-" Sam was beginning to suggest, but was promptly cut off.

"No!" came the bark from under the Impala, almost as if the car itself was issuing the edict. Either way, no room for debate. Sam had assumed as much.

Mose finished off his beer with one final swig, pushed himself away from the column he'd been leaning against with a small groan and a stretch. "I'm gonna go check and see if Max has gotten back to me yet," he told Sam, then left after a quick fist-bump with the younger man and a mild kick to one of Dean's boots as he passed.

"He seems a little worried," Sam commented to Dean.

"Nah."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You think you'll want another beer?"

"Yeah."

.

* * *

.

The ceiling was bright, but hazy, so the light didn't startle Jane when she awoke. Glancing down, there was her beloved old quilt. Her wrapped wrists and hands laid atop it, her fingernails sporting one of the most... _interesting_  nail polish colors she'd ever come across. 

"Jane? Did you hear me?"

Jane sat up slowly, thankful there were railings on either side of the upper part of stretcher to assist. Well, what she'd _assumed_ to be a stretcher, given its narrow nature. She had a general soreness across her body, but not overtly-so. Not like she typically had - there were no deep aches, no shooting pains. Which, quite frankly, unsettled her. And her left hip felt a bit odd. So did her mid-to-lower back, but Jane couldn't quite sort why or how. Her brain was as fuzzy as that ceiling.

"I... I... sorry, um, who did you say you were? And I don't see... sorry, where are you?"

"No need to be sorry. Especially not twice. I'm Betty, and I'm here watching over you. How are you feeling?"

Jane blinked several times, taking in her monochrome surroundings. Her gaze landed on a nearby table. Then she felt a close-lipped but genuine smile come to her face when she saw the framed photo of a little boy and baby, held close by a clearly happy man and woman. "I don't know," she whispered after a few moments of thought.

"Are you in pain?"

Jane frowned a bit at the disembodied voice, saying, "Can you just... give me a minute to wake up?"

"Of course."

It was weird, to be sure, but Jane assumed there was a speaker somewhere that she couldn't see. Also under the heading of "weird" - no one was rushing in to grab her or stick needles in her or hook her up to monitors. Whoever this woman was on the other side of the speaker, well, she seemed pleasant enough. So, for the moment, Jane was willing to put it to the side while she assessed her situation. Pulling back the quilt and the sheet that was laid across her, she looked over at what she wore. Thick socks she recognized as her own, black thermal leggings, also her own, and a gown that came to her knees. It was the most pleasing material she'd ever had next to her skin, this kimono-like garment she'd never seen before. Her hair was down, the slight wave towards the bottom that she usually straightened out - provided she had cooperative hands - present and accounted for, though it felt longer than she remembered. And while the gown was secured in the front, below her waist, with a wide, thick, knotted belt, she could feel her long hair against the skin of her back. Still frowning, she reached behind with one hand, gingerly feeling around.

Jane's eyes widened, and she pulled her hair around the front with her other hand. She noted when she did, that there was a small bow, tying two narrow ribbons of fabric together, loosely falling just beyond her neck, serving to keep the gown across her shoulders. Because, she'd discovered, there was hardly any fabric on her back.

And she suddenly knew why.

Jane felt what she thought at first to be stitching, but in some pattern she didn't recognize. Then the sensation at her fingertips finally seemed to communicate with her brain. Whatever was in her back was stiffer than suture filament, but there were no knots to be found, and she could feel her skin buckled up in small lumps around the... the...

"What is this?" Jane asked aloud.

"You had wounds that needed to be closed. Those are absorbable, they should be gone in-"

"It's _metal_ ," Jane shot back.

It almost startled her to hear the scathing tone of her own voice. But something deeper was nagging at her about the voice with which she was conversing. Something was familiar, and it simply wasn't sitting right. Jane let out a gasp, realizing whatever it was ran along either side of her backbone. Reaching around higher, one arm after the other, stretching as far as she could, she found that the twin rows of evenly-spaced metal cross-hatching stopped right under her shoulder blades. And she felt herself getting flushed with anger, from head to toe.

"Your spine needed attention," the voice explained, interpreting Jane's shocked utterance correctly.

Jane did not respond to this - instead she flipped her hair back over her shoulder, then began moving her legs, sliding her heels up and down, bending her knees, flexing all the muscles one by one. Then she asked, "How long have I been laying here?"

No response.

"Betty, right?"

"Yes, Jane?"

"Tell. Me. How. Long. I. Have. Been. Here."

A pause.

"Not quite four months."

Jane's stomach dropped. Her mind raced. But then it snapped into a clinician's routine like a reflex, shifting into thinking of herself as a patient, saying, "I have feeling, movement, everywhere - what did you mean by my spine? The vertebrae or the cord?"

Another pause.

Jane tried again. "Why aren't my muscles atrophied?"

An quick response this time. "We have been stimulating routinely-"

Good enough.

Jane abruptly swung both legs over and off the mattress, grimacing a bit at the first instance of a distinct ache, coming from her left hip. She carefully stretched her feet, trying to judge the distance to the floor. Her toes made contact almost immediately, and she began shifting herself closer to the edge.

"I advise you not to stand without assistance-"

Jane gripped the handrail on her right side, flattening her feet one at a time onto the floor.

"We discontinued the stimulation when your progress seemed to-"

"Whoop!"

It wasn't exactly the sound that Jane made as she very nearly fell to the floor, her only salvation the tight grip she maintained on the rail, but it was close enough to make Betty speak firmly.

"I'm going to contact Andrew-"

"Don't you _dare_ ," Jane hissed through grit teeth, managing to bring her forearms onto the mattress and pull herself to an almost standing - but precarious - position. She intuitively kept most of her weight on her right side. "What the hell is wrong with my left hip?"

"There were severe fractures to your pelvis. And your femur."

Jane had arrived at anger. She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to be nice and steady. She spoke slowly, trying to keep from yelling. "Why am I not hooked to monitors? Why am I not hungry or thirsty? Why don't I have a catheter? Or an I.V.? How does my mouth feel like I just brushed my teeth?"

Silence.

Jane whipped herself around, aided by socked feet on tile, planting her palms behind her on the mattress, and she quickly surveyed the room, now wide awake, knowing exactly what to look for. None of the archways she saw seemed to lead to anywhere. There was, however, a staircase, no door at the top that she could see from her vantage point, but a doorway _had_ to be up there. A chair was against the counter across from her, past the long island to her right. An unfamiliar dark lavender robe hung over the back. Another new thing - a cane - leaned against the counter, just to the side of the chair.

But then, several welcome doses of familiarity - her old, stained, very worn, pull-on fleece-lined boots that Andrew absolutely hated were sitting neatly side-by-side underneath the chair. On the counter above it were pictures, the ones from her mirror at the apartment, all in plain metal frames. Her childhood storybooks were stacked to the side. And then there was her charm bracelet, which triggered a thought.

Jane immediately brought her hand up, feeling all around her upper chest, then pawed a little further down, past the v-neck of the gown. "Where's my locket?" she asked, panic cutting through the words.

"It's safe, Jane. Andrew has it."

Jane made a scoffing sound. Then determination set in. With a mental three-count, she flung herself towards the island, grasping the edge. She was getting out of there, even if it took her another _not-quite-four-months_ to get up all those stairs.

"Jane, I would advise-"

"Stuff it."

Another three-count, and Jane propelled herself towards the counter and the chair, only needing to briefly come down on the ball of her left foot. She muttered at the discomfort it caused, but pushed it aside - she'd achieved her goal. Easing herself into the chair, she paused to take a slow inhalation and exhalation.

Betty had apparently opted to change tactics, as it was clear Jane was not going to listen to the given advice, and started again from the top. "I am a program - a computer," Betty began.

"No kidding," Jane replied flatly, not really caring at this point, her only focus on getting the hell out of there and finding Sam and Dean. After pulling on one of the boots without issue, she stopped, stared at her hands - no tremors.

"I am Andrew's assistant. My protocols were adjusted recently. Upon your awakening, you are to have priority command."

Jane considered this while she pulled on the other boot - and then it hit her, why she found Betty's voice so unsettling. Another scoffing sound. "I know your voice," Jane stated, leaning over and resting her forearms on her thighs, bringing her hands together and cracking a few knuckles as she gazed at a random tile.

Betty did not respond.

"It's Ms. Nellie's voice," Jane continued. "From the old ER."

Nellie - or Mrs. Harper, as Andrew had called her - was the grandmotherly woman who worked for the emergency services director and handled the physician scheduling. She was so kind. She knew of Jane's situation, how the sickly young woman had become their star attending's assistant in his lab, and was the first person Jane found to be authentically sympathetic and genuinely interested in her progress, not asking merely to be polite. She was consistently cheerful anytime Jane had called to relay a message from Andrew. Always giggled at her southern-bred colloquialisms, complimented Jane on her accent, made her promise to never try and rid herself of it.

"Andrew thought a familiar but non-familial voice would be of comfort," said Betty.

"We still get Christmas cards from you. You sent me my rain boots. I made you a casserole after your knee surgery," Jane quietly commented.

"The casserole was not thrown away. Andrew shared it with the rest of the staff," Betty offered.

"Are you also Andrew's high school friend? Will, the one who lives in Italy? Who calls every few months?"

"Yes."

"And his mom? Before she died? Who sent me thank-you cards for her Mother's Day flowers because she knew it wasn't Andrew who was picking them out?"

"Yes."

Jane could feel tears welling up.

"I'm sorry this upsets you."

Jane sniffled, swiped under her eyes, then straightened up, taking the robe from the back of the chair and pulling it on. The sleeves were a little too long. It had a big hood. It was soft and felt heavenly against her bare back. And it was warm. She still felt a little chilled; seems some things would never change. At least _that_ brought some comfort.

"I have a list of voices to go through," Betty said. "From all around the world. I'm trying to master all tones, inflections, accents - things of that nature."

"Good for you." Once more there was heavy silence, and Jane took the moment to process the information she'd been given before she spoke again. "What did that mean earlier? When you said 'priority command'?"

"To begin, you may pick my voice."

Jane sighed, then asked, "Where were you on your list?"

"I have recently finished with Idaho. Illinois was next. And, perhaps a male voice? I have been using a female-"

"Do it."

"Done."

Betty's voice was now that of a man's on the upper end of the bass spectrum, not too low, not too high. The tone was easy-going. Jane actually liked it. Mainly because it sounded like no one she'd ever met and it didn't bring on a hailstorm of memories. Jane moved onto flexing various muscles more aggressively as she continued her queries.

"So what else? About priority command?"

"That aside from my core directives - well, your wish is my command. For instance: my current scans indicate you are not in an urgent or emergent condition. As long as this remains the case, please feel free to do what you like."

Jane's eyebrows shot up. "Wow. Well. Thanks for giving me permission I did not need."

"I apologize for offending you-"

"You're not offending me... I'm not angry at..."  Jane sighed again, stopping herself before she started to apologize to a computer for hurting its - nonexistent - feelings. She also stopped her flexing, deciding this was as good as it was going to get. She reached over, taking the cane.

"Would you like me to call Andrew?"

"No," Jane said immediately.

"I will have to call him eventually. I'm sure you know that."

Jane nodded. "But you said my wish is your command, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Then I wish for you to put that off. Give me... I don't know, an hour or two? Maybe a little more."

"I'm pleased to wait until that point."

"Yeah. Okay. That's the plan." Jane eased herself up slowly, then utilized the counter and the cane to steady herself. The cane had weight to it, though not so much as to make smooth usage an issue. And the ornate grip had not escaped Jane's notice. "Somebody's got eccentric taste," she muttered.

"A colleague of Andrew's sent that along for you."

"A real, actual, living, breathing colleague - so he _does_ have them? How's about that," Jane commented bitterly.

"I sense you are angry at Andrew."

"Bingo, Betty," Jane said, a touch of strain to her voice as she began making her way towards the staircase.

"What is it you believe he's done?"

Jane ignored the question, plodding forward, approaching the area near the first archway.

Betty wisely chose another topic, stating, "Your brothers are in the garage."

"Once I'm up those stairs, how do I get out of-"

In the blink of an eye, Jane suddenly found herself in a hallway of the bunker. Her stomach was fluttering. So was her heart. Her _everything_.

She meandered slowly, getting her bearings. It was so quiet, save the sound of the cane clicking against the floor. All the bedroom doors were closed, except one. It was not her bedding, nor her furniture, and it wasn't decorated, but even with a cursory glance, Jane knew. She just knew. This was _her_ room.

Someone had painted the walls almost the same grey color as her duvet back at the apartment. There was a beautiful new closet - she could smell the fresh stain. She slowly entered, ran her hands over the wood. The handful of books she'd kept by her bed were neatly arranged on a shelf. Her laptop was on the desk. Her clothes were in the process of being unpacked from boxes she knew had been in storage. Jane chuckled at the lack of a sink, assuming it had taken up needed space, or perhaps had been removed just because she'd mentioned how odd she'd found them.

It was the sweetest thing she'd ever seen. And heartbreaking. And it made Jane go to a very quiet, very far-away place.

She left, closing the door gently.

.

* * *

.

Castiel headed to the lab to check on Jane. His morning assessments had drifted to every-other-day, as it seemed to work better with everyone's pattern. Aside from Betty, there were enough people in-and-out to check on Jane's condition. And his assessments had resulted in identical information for weeks on end. No change on the vitals, just in the details only Andrew and Betty could see. Though he knew he'd be alerted to any sort of emergency, it still made _him_ feel better to lay eyes on her several times a day when he wasn't out helping the boys.

Which is why he was utterly shocked to come down the stairs and see an empty stretcher.

"What's happened?! Betty!"

"Everything's fine, Cas."

Castiel paused for a moment. "Why are you an eastern north-central region American man?"

Andrew came from around the other side of the monitor - Castiel hadn't even noticed him. He held in his hand a flat, tablet-like device made of the same material as the monitors. He pecked out a few more things, then set it down, walked over to the frowning angel as calmly as could be. "Jane's alright," Andrew said. "She's been awake for fifteen or twenty minutes."

"Where?"

"I sent her to one of the hallways you wouldn't be coming down," Betty replied. "Jane requested a few hours of personal time."

"And Betty let me know immediately, of course, but I'm steering clear for now," Andrew added. "I've looked over everything. She's fine, Cas." The doctor's mind went somewhere then, his face growing solemn.

" _You_ aren't fine," Castiel pointed out.

Andrew managed a small smile, saying, "I'm happy she's awake." Going back to where he'd been, he picked up the... the...

"What is that, may I ask?"

Andrew nodded. "Care to explain, Betty?"

"It's a miniature me. For Jane."

Andrew's eyebrows shot up. "Little more vague than your usual manner, but yes - that about sums it up."

Castiel considered this, then said, "So you're going to be honest with her, about-"

"About everything," Andrew finished quietly, briefly meeting Castiel's eye before returning his gaze to the tablet. "I think it's about time for that, wouldn't you say?"

"I do," Castiel replied honestly.

"I question if I erred in deciding to keep her flying blind." Andrew had paused his tapping on the thin, opaque rectangle in his hand with that statement, but then resumed.

"On the subject of flying blind," Castiel began tentatively, coming closer, pausing by the stretcher to pick up the quilt.

"Yes?"

Castiel started folding the quilt, saying, "I am considering utilizing the... I am concerned about my temperament of late. That I will accidentally hurt someone. Someone we're trying to assist on a case. Dean, Sam, perhaps Jane ---"

Andrew looked to him once more.

"--- so I was hoping you could return them. My ability to use them."

"The nictating membranes? You're sure?"

Castiel nodded.

"Then just do it," Andrew said simply.

Castiel blinked, frowned a bit, set the folded quilt down on the foot of the stretcher and came closer to the other man. Andrew followed suit, setting down the tablet and then leaning against the head of the stretcher, crossing his arms.

"I don't understand - then what was that... that instrument you used?" he asked.

Andrew shrugged. "I use it for scooping up samples that I don't want to touch."

Castiel raised an eyebrow.

Andrew smiled. "Clean as a whistle before it came near you. So why the change of heart?"

A moment of silence passed. "I'm different," Castiel stated, and with zero emotion.

Andrew nodded slowly. "Counterpoint?"

No response.

"Could be you're just... more _you_."

Castiel stared at him briefly, then he turned to the images of Jane's skeleton that were up on the monitor. He squinted. " _What_ am I missing?" he asked, both to Andrew and to himself, keeping his gaze trained on her bones.

Andrew uncrossed his arms, stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and began to walk in the direction of one of the arches. "Might want to try a different view," he commented softly. Then, louder, to Betty, he said, "I need to grab something from the vault. Be back soon." The arch entry shifted to a slightly shimmery field as Andrew walked through, and back to the lab's white wall in his wake.

Castiel closed his eyes, concentrated with all the might he could muster, his jaw tightening, his posture stiffening. Frustrated, he said, "Betty, I believe I'll need to you expound upon what 'a different view' entails."

"I can't help with this one. This is all you."

"But how-"

"Think happy thoughts."

Castiel's concentration was broken, and in what had become a habit, he turned to the larger of the two monitors, speaking to it as if it were Betty in physical form. "You're quoting Peter Pan."

"Good advice is good advice. Does the source matter?"

Castiel sighed.

"They're your _eyes_ , Cas. Your windows to the soul."

"My soul," he repeated with scoff. "Now you're becoming poetic. Not to mention inaccurate. And annoying."

"All right. Facts, then. Your charges - humans in general. Windows into _their_ souls."

The angel's brow creased slightly, and he didn't respond, but he did turn back, took a small step closer to the monitor with the scans.

"Souls are but a poetic term for _more_ poetic terms - hearts and minds and spirits and essence - it's all energy. Looping and looping, relaying information, speeding and slowing when it has to, bursting out and touching others in ways you can't imagine."

Another step.

"Not all of you can see it. And, Castiel - how lucky you are. You were _made_ to see it."

A bit of a squint.

"Now do what you do, watcher: _look_."

Castiel closed his eyes, then opened them slowly.

_FLICK_

All over her bones, there were those weaving threads, the interlocking webs he'd noted before, that unidentifiable _something_ , the oddness to the striations. Some bones seemed to have more densely grouped lines than others, but they were all over. Not one piece of her skeleton, not even the tips of her fingers, was untouched. An even closer look began to reveal patterns. They were microscopic, _less_ than microscopic, and they weren't immediately familiar to him. Castiel would later describe them as maybe a little like ghosts of the predecessors of Enochian, of Metatron's writings on the tablets, of sigils and devil's traps, of Cain's Mark, of _all_ of it. But, then again... _not_. That ambiguity in everything kept rearing its head.

Yet Castiel found himself beginning to smile. He thought of the etchings he'd slammed onto Sam and Dean's ribs. Then he began to allow himself to wonder if perhaps he'd been practicing Andrew's brand of medicine all along.

A calm feeling washed over him.

"Betty, if anyone needs me, I think I'm going to take a page from Jane's book, do a little stargazing."

"Castiel, it isn't quite nighttime yet."

But he'd transported himself out of the lab without another word, without a second thought, no longer worried where that soul of his might take him.

.

* * *

.

Jane had arrived at a more familiar location and found herself walking by the bathroom - and she did a double-take, coming closer, standing at the threshold and leaning with her free hand against the door frame.

Not every light was on, but she could see there was work in progress near one of the far showers, a hole where a tap should've been. Jane briefly had a flashback, just a glimpse of a memory, recalling grabbing onto it and jerking it clean from the wall. Making her way closer, she ran a hand over the intact tile to the side of the hole, much as she'd done with the closet, almost as if to make sure it was real. A stepladder, drywall materials, spackle, spatulas and a box of new tiles were nearby, ready to finish the patching as soon as what appeared to be a crushed pipe was fixed.

Then there was that absolutely gorgeous bathtub over in the other corner, not quite flush against the left wall. It was jutting out into the middle area of the showers lengthwise, almost directly across from the ruined tap, as if its ultimate position had yet to be decided upon. It was, from the color to the hardware to the shapes of the clawed feet, exactly her dream tub. Jane loved it instantly.

And she hated it because she knew it came from Andrew.

Jane carefully navigated herself, stepping over the side, using the cane and the rounded edge of the tub to lower herself into a seated position. She let the cane slide to the floor with a small clank of the handle. Then she scooted herself back, resting against the curved surface at the end. She briefly wondered how on earth Andrew thought she was supposed to fill it. More of his magic? Jane rubbed her temples.

She frowned a bit, adjusting herself slightly to keep from leaning too much on the... _whatever_ they were... lining her back, but they weren't painful, didn't protrude a great amount, so she settled in quickly, allowed herself a brief moment of relaxation. Jane closed her eyes, trying to enjoy the fact that one of her dreams had actually come to fruition. It was deep, and it was long enough so her legs stretched completely out.

Opening her eyes, she looked to the narrow, metal wire rack stretched across the other end of the tub. It held a brand new bar of her favorite scented soap, she knew it on sight, as well as a nice, heavy, silver-toned razor, like the old-fashioned kind you had to put actual razor blades into. Like the one Andrew used. Leaning forward, she picked it up, eased back once more.

Andrew had always said it produced the closest shave he'd ever had, and on one feeling-a-bit-better-than-garbage day, she'd snuck and used it on her legs. He'd found out about her sneakiness when she'd nicked her knee, nearly down to the bone, and it wouldn't stop bleeding; she'd been on some pretty stout blood thinners at the time. The bathroom looked like a crime scene by the time he'd gotten home. But he hadn't been angry at all, even laughed as he bandaged her up when she commented he'd been right - it _was_ the closest shave ever.

Jane held the razor higher, bringing it closer to her face, turning it, studying it, and then stated in a nearly monotone voice, "You can come in."

Crowley slowly walked into the light, holding a book, dressed to the nines, just like the first time they'd met.

"There's something about the juxtaposition of the razor and your bandaged wrists that reminds me of some sort of very special sitcom episode."

This got a tiny smile from Jane and resulted in one of his own. Crowley took the stepladder and moved it a little closer, but not so close as to be hovering over her, then perched atop it. Once he'd settled, Jane spoke.

"It is easy for someone to joke about scars if they've never been cut."

Crowley's eyebrows raised. "A fan of the bard?"

Jane didn't reply, still wasn't looking at him.

"And men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins," the demon quoted in reply.

"C.S. Lewis? Would not have expected that from you."

"And what would you find fitting for me, Miss Winchester?"

It was the second time in a day she'd been called that. It made her warm inside. Only briefly, before the cold set in again. "Maybe this world is another planet's hell."

"Oh, Aldous? Hmmm." Crowley eyed her for a moment. She seemed a figment. Like if he'd looked away for too long, she'd disappear. Like perhaps she _wanted_ to disappear. "If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you," he told her.

"Nietzsche."

It was a clipped reply, the stale response of a student being quizzed by their professor. Crowley wondered if she was tiring of their little game - but then, barely above a whisper, he heard her riposte.

"It was a pleasure to burn."

"You enjoy Bradbury?"

A shrug.

"Make it a habit of memorizing random quotations, then?"

"No." A pause. "I assume I've read them at some point... I used to read a lot," Jane finally responded. She looked to him, asking, "That what you're reading?"

"This?" Crowley replied, holding up the book he held. "Well, it's what I've been reading to _you_."

Jane's face lapsed from its blankness briefly, revealing her confusion at the statement.

"Since you fell ill. I'd gone through those insipid fairy tales lying about - twice. Decided to move onto some of my favorites." He held the book out so she could get a better view of the title, and was rewarded with a light chuckle.

"Dante's _Inferno_? No kidding?" Jane asked.

Crowley shrugged, sitting back and crossing his legs. "What can I say? Sometimes I veer towards the expected."

"Still a fairy tale," Jane commented, her face and tone back to a blank slate.

"I suppose."

It struck him odd she wasn't questioning him - not his visits, not his reading, not his current presence. That she wasn't with Sam and Dean. That she was content being alone. Perhaps she'd begun to get an idea of how alone she'd really been.

"I didn't have the opportunity to visit last night, thought I'd take a chance," Crowley explained. "I've made an afternoon visit several times, when they'd all gone off to stuff their faces. Even Wings."

Not a bit of a reaction on her face, not even a minuscule one, and if she knew he was talking about Castiel, understood the angel-based nickname, it was lost on Crowley. He could not read her at all. Time for a push - he was most curious as to what Jane might know about his past, though he was satisfied she'd opted to begin with a more immediate time frame.

"How often?" she asked.

"Our story hour? Most nights, when I wasn't dealing with some ripple effect of your boys' doing or stirring up trouble of my own. Busy, busy bee. So it goes when you're a monarch."

Jane cut her eyes over to him briefly. "You think of hell as a kingdom?"

Crowley didn't respond, but ever-so-slightly narrowed his eyes.

"I like you. So it's a relief."

"Why?" Crowley asked, side-stepping giving too much thought to how _this_ time, she hadn't been shy letting him know she understood precisely what he'd meant.

Jane was still slowly turning the razor in her hands, evaluating every angle, as she replied. "I think if you considered it a theocracy, I'd be worried for you."

Crowley arched an eyebrow. It was amongst the most smoothly delivered veiled threats he'd ever been on the receiving end of, and coming out of _her_ , not _it_. If Jane wanted his attention - she'd gotten it. "If I may ask - why aren't you throwing yourselves into the arms of Moose and Squirrel?"

"That make you Boris?"

"Ugh. No. Please, my dear. _Clearly_ Natasha _."_

Jane didn't laugh, but there was some mild snickering. Crowley allowed himself a close-lipped smile. It was a good sound to hear.

"So who does that make me, Your Majesty?"

"Hmmm, dear me," Crowley said, un-crossing and re-crossing his legs, thinking. "Certainly not Boris. Could be you're Mr. Big under that lovely exterior. Underestimated, and all."

He didn't receive a reply from Jane, but she did place the razor back in the tray and tilt her head towards him, finally looking to him with a steady focus once she'd leaned back. Her face was a touch more relaxed. She'd ended up sinking a little lower in the tub, so perhaps she was altogether more relaxed. All Crowley could see of of her face from his position were her eyes and a bit of her nose. Just as well; it was those eyes that made him most nervous. Good to know where they were.

"I don't seem to be walking very well right now. Will you take me to the roof?" Jane asked softly.

Crowley answered by standing.

"First, can we... will you read to me? Just... just a little while?"

It was the most like the Jane he'd initially met that she'd sounded since they'd begun their conversation. So Crowley took a seat once more, opened the book. "Let me see. Where were we... Ah. We are in the ninth circle: treachery."

Jane's gaze drifted, her brown eyes a bit glazed over as they landed on some spot in the darkened area of the room; Crowley cleared his throat and began.

"'O reader, do not ask of me how I grew faint and frozen then – I cannot write it. All words would fall far short of what it was. I did not die, and I was not alive...'"

.

* * *

.

"You know what I was thinking about the other day?"

Dean was out from under the Impala.

"About, what... what happened to the car?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head, going once more around the open driver's side door, getting half-way in. He plopped onto the seat, legs, feet and most of his upper body still outside as he looked over at Sam, answering, "About how Baby was born in Janesville."

Sam grinned as he contributed to Dean's line of thinking. "Hey, and how... I mean, even though it was for Mom... how-"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Can't get to the goods without Jane's birthday."

An attempted crank of the engine - no joy.

The atmosphere in the garage grew solemn. Dean stood, walked over and picked his beer back up, taking a long swig. He came closer to where Sam was, running a finger down the side of the car as he went.

"I know it's been frustrating - me being so convinced," Sam commented, then paused, sighed deeply before continuing. "I don't - I just don't want you to think I'm... that I'm just discarding the fact that you don't remember her being in your childhood."

A faint frown came to Dean's face, not knowing where Sam was headed - and now Sam's voice was barely above a whisper when he tacked on three more words.

"But I _do_."

Dean's expression immediately went to a place of shock mixed with sternness, but he didn't speak.

"I've been having dreams," Sam continued. "Not strong. Not strong at _first_... but they've gotten more and more vivid."

"How long?" Dean asked.

"Since... since that night, at the chapel." _Isn't quite the truth, but isn't a lie,_ he told himself."And, uh... lately they've been clearer," Sam answered carefully, now looking everywhere but at his brother's face.

"How clear?" Dean asked, his voice not as tense as Sam would've guessed.

Sam suspected he knew what Dean was asking, though he went with a vague response. "Pretty clear."

" _Vision_ clear?" Dean prodded, wanting explicit confirmation.

"Not in a _predictive_ sense, but-"

"But the same vibe."

Sam looked to him and nodded. They sipped on their beers. Several moments of very heavy silence passed.

"If she got adopted when she was around five," Dean said slowly, "then, Sammy, you maybe would've been-"

"I know," Sam cut in. "It's not... it's not long stretches. Just bits and pieces. But I can smell things and hear things and touch things, as real as I'm standing here right now."

Dean seemed to be in deep thought, deciding how to respond, and Sam waited.

"Tell me," Dean requested in a soft tone.

"I was so short, no way I could reach tabletops or climb on a bed or a chair. Felt wobbly most of the time, couldn't run or anything. But I saw you. I mean, a little boy, but I knew it was you, same kid I've seen in pictures." Sam took a few steps, bringing him closer to Dean, leaned against the Impala, closed his eyes as he continued. "There's a girl's voice, reading me stories. Feeding me green beans one at a time, broken in half, and they were the best things ever. Knowing Dad, they were from a can, but... And sitting on a bed, you on one side, someone about the same size as you on the other, watching cartoons, both of you keeping me steady, not letting me roll off." Sam opened his eyes again, laughed before he capped off his story, saying, "I heard a girl's voice humming behind me, smoothing out my hair, even though I'm sure I didn't have much."

It made sense to Dean right then, why Sam had been doing Jane's hair, washing and brushing it carefully, so insistent they shouldn't cut it. Dean had asked him early on why he went to the trouble, when Castiel would end up braiding it to keep it from being all over. Sam had shrugged, told him it was probably the same reason he kept on painting her nails. Because that could be the day she came back.

_"And what happens when that day never comes?" Dean had asked in reply. "Or what if it does, but something else walks out of that lab?"_

_"Don't. We can't think like that," Sam had told him. "She didn't hurt us, she could've, and she didn't. I decided I'm gonna love whatever version of Jane comes back. So should you."_

Coming back to the present, Dean said firmly, "I can do it."

"Do.... you can do what?" asked Sam.

"I can accept it. Your... dreams, memories, whatever. Accept her as family. I can be here for whatever... _whoever_... she is when she wakes up." A pause, a touch of a wry chuckle. "Hell, I've done it before. I can do it again."

Dean drank one last gulp, killed off his beer. Sam's brow creased - but then he suddenly knew exactly what Dean meant. Knew exactly where. And it soaked his mind, same as when the memories of Dean's demon's words had invaded his consciousness the night prior.

The first hit had been hard. Dean had ricocheted back against the Impala. He was already spitting blood.

_Sammy? Are you in there?_

Sam heard his own voice, dripping with venom.

_Oh, he's in here, all right._

Another punch.

_And he's gonna feel the snap of your bones._

Again, and this time Dean had hit the ground.

_Every. Single. One. We're gonna take our time._

He'd pummeled Dean. Easily ten, or maybe even a dozen, times. Dean had tried to grab onto him.

_Sam, it's okay. It's okay._

Areas of Dean's face were swollen to the hilt, bleeding from the places where the skin was tearing.

_I'm here. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you._

Two more hard pops to Dean's face. Sam could still feel the bones in his brother's face as his fist made contact. It made him shudder.

_I'm not gonna leave you._

And, Dean didn't.

Not during Sam's _own_ chapel incident, back when the angels fell. Not when they thought he might've been infected with the Croatoan virus. Not when he'd gotten infected with _Amara's_ plague. Not when he'd gorged himself silly on demon blood. Not when he'd gone soulless. Not went he'd aligned himself with all manner of evil, telling himself it was for the greater good. Probably a million other times that Sam couldn't manage to sift through at the moment.

Dean had watched Sam's face, could always tell when that brain of his was chewing on something. He walked away from Sam, setting the empty beer bottle near the stairs to remind himself to carry it with him when he was done. If he _ever_ got done trying to fix whatever it was he'd messed up.

He went to the toolbox and picked up a few items. Whatever Sam was processing, no sense in trying to interrupt. Always best to let it play out, else it would go from marinating to stewing to bubbling over.

So for now, Dean slid back under the car.

.

* * *

.

Castiel was once more on the roof, seated on a ledge, not waiting for the sun this time, just enjoying the emerging starlight. He was so taken with the sights in the sky, he didn't even notice Jane's presence til he heard slow footsteps alternating with a click on the concrete. He turned slowly, and upon seeing her, moved quickly to come help her, but she shook her head. And though she acknowledged the gesture, Jane _didn't_ acknowledge Castiel's staring, simply came up beside him, leaned on the ledge, looked up at the stars, and spoke to him softly.

"Don't be scared, Cas."

Castiel blinked, surprised at the statement as well as the odd, flat affect and tone from the chipper and smiling woman he'd first known. He knew she'd be different - who wouldn't be? He'd somehow imagined she'd be closer to where she'd been than as far away as she seemed. "I'm not frightened of you."

Jane looked at him. "I know."

And he believed that she did.

"Thank you for taking care of me," she went on.

"I owed you-"

"Not me," she corrected.

They stared at each other for several moments.

"I'm afraid of the changes in me," Castiel confessed, his thoughts rushing out. "It scares me how... how... how _emotional_ I've become. I have, admittedly, gotten angry many times in my past. This, however... it's as if I'm poised to pounce. As if I'm something's prey." A pause. "As if I'm _hunting_ for prey." Another pause. "As if I could throttle Sam or Dean - mostly Dean - at any given moment."

The corners of Jane's mouth turned up as she asked, "When you're working with them?"

Castiel was curious about what precisely she knew about her brothers' lives. He opted to skirt around the issue as much as possible. That was not his story to tell. "No more than usual; well, that is to say, my _former_ usual," he answered.

"So mostly when you're home?"

"Home," Castiel echoed, and he nodded. "Yes."

"That's mighty human of you," Jane replied. It was a cheeky statement, delivered blandly, Castiel thought, and when the only thing she received from him was a deep frown, she turned her gaze back to the stars, adding, "We get most angry when it comes to the ones we care about the most, you know." She looked to him then, pointedly, indicating she expected a response.

"I was... I was already freely expressing..." Castiel's thought trailed off.

" _Were_ you?"

Fair enough. Maybe he _had_ been holding back his emotions more than he realized, the angel thought to himself. Then he opted to take a chance on upsetting Jane. Perhaps even _angering_ Jane.... or angering whatever loomed inside. "Would you happen to have any insight as to why I was... why it was that... while I wasn't made whole at the chapel, I was seemingly given additional... characteristics? Sensitivities?"

The tiniest of frowns came to Jane's brow.

"I realize the fields prevented me from saving myself from dying," he went on, "from healing myself, and it certainly isn't a lack of appreciation-"

"You died?"

Castiel stared. "Jane. I know things were probably very confusing for you, but-"

"I'm not confused. And she-" Jane's face became pinched as she shut her eyes and cut herself off. She pushed herself away from the ledge, turned, began heading towards the stairwell. Castiel couldn't tell if she was done speaking to him or just trying to re-group, searching for other words.

He leapt off the ledge, trailing after her, coming to her side, when she suddenly stopped. A not-so-peaceful look was on her face and a hint of annoyance was in her voice when she looked up at him and spoke.

"You were given a nudge. The rest you've always done for yourself." Jane once more resumed her exit, and at a decent clip, cane be damned.

Castiel gaped at her retreating figure, half-saying and half-mouthing, " _What?_ "

She stopped, looked over her shoulder, answered in that strange tone. "I'm told you'd already been taught how to do it."  And then, ever-so-slowly, she turned around completely, facing him once more, studying him for a moment. One side of her mouth twitched upwards. He could've sworn there was a twinkle in her eye when she added, "'Assbutt'?"

Castiel felt his own mouth slide into a grin, suspected a bit of a blush came to his cheeks. He chuckled, glanced down. Took a good look at himself while he was at it.  He stood casually, but with his shoulders back versus forwards. Hands in trouser pockets. Very loosened tie. But he loved that damn trench coat. Some things would stay as they were... at least, for now. He looked back up at Jane. Well - he'd wanted answers; he'd never  _not_ wanted them, he  _craved_ them. And a stiff breeze probably could've knocked him over at that point. He'd felt relief earlier. But this was the most relaxed that he'd felt in... that he'd felt.

"In retrospect, I still don't know that I would change my words," he admitted.

"No criticism here."

"May I escort you downstairs?"

Jane glanced at the stairwell, then back to him and nodded. So he took her hand. And they were back in the bunker, just like that.

Castiel and Jane shortly came upon Mose in the hallway. He wasn't looking where he was going, rather staring down at his phone and frowning, distracted. But when he looked up at the sound of their footsteps rounding the corner, the frown was replaced by surprise.

Castiel introduced them, saying, "Mose, this is Jane. Jane, Mose. He's a longtime friend of your brothers."

"Hi," Mose managed.

"Nice to meet you."

It was an utterly flat-toned response - Mose blinked at that, but recovered quickly, and looked to Castiel, saying, "I was actually hoping to catch you, but you're busy, so -"

Castiel was opening his mouth to respond, but Jane did it for him, dropping his hand as she spoke. "He's not. Are Sam and Dean still in the garage?"

"Uh, I think so," Mose replied, glancing from Castiel to Jane and back again as she began to walk down the hallway.

"Can I take-" Castiel began to offer.

"No. See to him. He's worried."

And that, it seemed, was that.

Stunned, Mose let out a touch of a nervous laugh, shook his head back and forth. "Wow."

"What can I do for you?" Castiel asked.

"Um... it's Max. You know, my intern?"

Castiel nodded.

"He's real good about getting back to me. Longest he's ever taken, even when he's been in class - I mean, _maybe_ a half-hour."

"When's the last time you spoke?"

"Yesterday morning. Then got the email that afternoon with the file of the next show for me to review. Shot him a text last night." Mose paused, looked back down at his phone, became fidgety. Castiel hadn't known the man long, but he knew him well enough to know Jane was right - Mose was scared. It was confirmed when he added, "I got a bad feeling, Cas."

Castiel nodded again, saying, "I'll check on him."

Mose looked up from his phone, surprised. According to Sam and Dean, when it came to cases, Castiel had done what he could do to assist, per usual, but only what needed to be done. Nothing more, nothing less. And he was even more surprised at the offer the angel made next.

"Would you like to come along?"

"Yeah. Yeah, totally. Hang tight a sec."

Mose ran to his room, pulled out a down jacket, a warm hat and a pair of gloves. He opened the bedside table drawer, pausing a moment, glancing between the small, now-empty box and his hearing aids. He snatched up the aids, stuffing them in his pocket. Just in case.

_Alright, Blondie. You and yours are about to get a beta test._

He hustled back out the door, readying himself for his very first angel flight.

.

* * *

.

Sam wasn't bothering to muffle his snickering.

Dean was under the hood, had been for awhile, muttering all manner of curses. Then he suddenly extracted himself, holding up a wrench and screwdriver victoriously. He let them drop to the floor with loud clanks but kept his arms raised, like a runner hitting the finish line first. Sam thought his eyes and his smile looked more than a little wild.

"This is it! This is gonna be it! Watch and be amazed!" Dean announced, plopping into the driver's seat.

Sam mentally crossed his fingers. Fun as it had been to watch, this _had_ to come to an end; they'd drank all the beer.

The engine began to respond.

Dean's face lit up.

Then came a strained series of quick clicks, followed by a few short, almost _moaning_ , clicks, followed by nothing whatsoever.

"Seriously?!" Dean asked the car - or maybe the universe - in a loud, gruff voice.

Sam barely stifled the _pffft_ that came out involuntarily.

"Sure it's not the alternator?"

Sam and Dean turned to the back staircase at the sound of the voice they'd missed so much, both sporting wide eyes and dropped jaws upon the sight of her, Dean rising slowly from the driver's seat while Sam practically vaulted over the scattered tools and sprinted up the steps. They couldn't tell a thing was wrong, other than the cane. With the slightly mussed hair and the robe, it looked like their sister had simply strolled into the garage for a moment. Maybe telling them to hustle up, that breakfast was ready. Maybe telling them to stop fussing with the car and go to bed.

Sam wasn't sure what he expected. A _Hey, Buddy_ , or tears in her eyes, or even just a hug. So it was that an uncertain Sam, standing enough stairs below that he was looking up at someone for once, kept it to the point. "Hi."

A trace of a smile came to her when she replied. "Hi, yourself."

They'd gone through this before, at the threshold of the bunker, not long ago. Except there were no pies in the way, no coats to hang up, no nervousness to work around. And so this time, Sam didn't wait to pull her into his arms. He'd come up a stair, now only making him a little shorter than Jane, and he consciously kept his hands and arms away from the wounds on her back. His head fit right over her shoulder. He didn't hold too tightly. And he didn't feel her free arm reciprocate. But he couldn't say that he cared. 

And Dean kept the eye contact Jane had initiated as he wiped his dirty hands on what was probably an equally dirty rag, then tossed it aside. He slowly climbed the stairs, ending up one below Sam. His - _their_ \- little brother hadn't made a move to end his hug, though if it annoyed her, Dean couldn't tell. "I checked already," he told her. "The alternator."  

She responded with a few small, slow nods, a glance to the engine, then back, her unwavering gaze shooting right through him.

"I could check again," he suggested.

That faint smile was still there, but her face stayed blank as she said, "I'm probably wrong."

Dean stared at her a moment and, despite her demeanor, felt a crooked grin hit his face, replying, "You probably _are_." 

He took the next few beats of silence to study those eyes - they were hers, _only_ hers, and they were so, _so_ calm - and that at least gave Dean a measure of relief, albeit with an admittedly healthy dose of trepidation on top. He may've seemed calm to others during all the times the spaces inside of him were filled with things beyond his ken; he'd been anything  _but_.

Jane broke their eye contact, tilted her head. After a small kiss to Sam's temple, she made a gentle request. "Let me go, Bud."

There were those words again. _Let me go_. Sam still hated them, even though this time it was different.

At least, he was hoping so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	14. And The Show Must Go On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mose and Castiel make a frightening discovery; Jamie’s boss speaks with him about Jane; the Winchesters discuss future plans; Andrew comes for a visit

* * *

  _"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life._  
_And if the elevator tries to bring you down, go crazy. Punch a higher floor."_  
_\- Prince, songwriter; musician; artist; phenom: Let's Go Crazy_

* * *

.

**NOW**

Dear You People... Family... whatnot...

I'm told it has fallen upon me to tell this part of the story, and I won't wax poetic. I _am_ quite busy, as I'm sure you know. However, I keep my promises. Mostly.

The Winchester brothers reacted to the Winchester sister's re-entry into their lives as one might have imagined. Sam was focused on making sure Jane's concerns were addressed, seeing as how he thought there were some he could manage. And Dean was focused on making sure Jane's belly was full, seeing as how he thought that was _all_ he could manage.

So it was that they carefully, but insistently, hustled her out of the garage, chatting happily, and Jane let them, keeping whatever she was turning over in her mind to herself.

* * *

.

**THEN**

"I'll be right back, gotta go wash up, sit tight," Dean said rapidly, and left his younger siblings in the kitchen, a huge smile on his face the second he'd turned and bounded down the hallway.

Sam didn't move from Jane's side til she was settled comfortably in her seat, the cane leaning against the wall close by, then went across the table from her and sat. She wasn't making eye contact, and when she did, it felt to Sam like she was wasn't really focusing on him at all. The rest of the time, she was looking down at her hands, occasionally trailing one or two fingers across the bandaging in a random pattern.

He opted to wait until she spoke. A minute or so of silence passed, which was perfectly reasonable in his estimation; he surely owed her a million more. At _least_.

"I have a few questions..." Jane began, but trailed off, so Sam jumped in. He'd prepared. He'd expected this.

"Uh, yeah, I bet." Sam let out a nervous bite of a chuckle at his own understatement - and she didn't continue, so he did. "It's... it's gonna take some time, you know, but Dean and I - we already talked about it and we're going to tell you everything, about our family, about us, about-"

"You were the one washing my hair? Right?"

Okay, not _exactly_ what he'd expected.

Dean came back in then, the top half of his coveralls tied around his waist by the sleeves, revealing a - mostly - clean white tee. His face was free of greasy smudges and he was finishing up drying his freshly-scrubbed hands and forearms with a small towel. He whipped it back across a shoulder, letting it rest there as he walked over to them.

"Hey, on the subject of hair - how is it you've been in a coma for three months and you still have the best hair in the room?" he asked when he stopped by the table.

Sam tilted his head up at Dean, raised an eyebrow.

Dean shrugged. "You heard me."

Jane now tilted _her_ head, gave a good once-over to Sam's mostly-ponytailed locks and the overgrown scruff on his face, saying, "On the subject of hair - I would say this suits you."

"And what about _me_?" Dean demanded, but in a teasing tone.

Another head tilt, another bit of surveying. "I can appreciate the longer hair." A pause. "I haven't decided what I think of your beard yet."

The barest hint of a grin came across her lips, but Dean's grin was wide; he _did_ love a good call-back.

"Well, I think - oh, I know!" Sam exclaimed, jumping up. "I'll be right back, I had this - it's something that - just... just don't go anywhere, I'll be right back, and you'll - it'll be..." Sam dashed from the kitchen in a flurry of unfinished thoughts.

As Dean went on to pulling things from the fridge, then bringing out various cooking tools from drawers and shelves, he spoke to Jane again. "So, uh, your face. It's good it doesn't do that thing." He set a cutting board and a few items on the island. He kept busy, staying in near-constant motion. He wanted to be very careful not to crowd her or lord over her. He knew how it felt, coming back. How it took a little while for your brain and your body to adjust. To being alive. To being around others. To just _being_.

"Hmmm?" Jane replied, but had long stopped looking at him - she'd resumed that downcast gaze.

Dean grabbed a chopping knife, returned to his work space, answering as he went. "You know - resting bitch face. You've kinda got... I dunno... resting... these-dudes-are-about-to-drive-me-crazy-and-I'm-trying-to-be-polite face."

Jane uttered what could have been considered a tiny _ha-ha_. He glanced over, encouraged. This was perfect. He could do this, he was _good_ at this, at keeping things lighthearted.

"It's great, it's just... you know. Makes it hard to read you sometimes," Dean added, then chopped a head of lettuce in two with a _THWACK_.

"You'd prefer the other?"

Dean chuckled. "Heh. Naw, I just _know_ the other. Been on the receiving end of it more."

When he looked to her again, she was staring at her hands, running one thumb over the other, just stroking the shiny, metallic, blackened-blue lacquer. Dean wondered if she knew he'd done it. Probably would've said something if she ---

"You have interesting taste."

Dean stared.

Jane raised her eyes to his, her rubbing halted. "The polish," she clarified with a touch of a smile. "Can't speak to the women." Then the smile expanded just the tiniest bit and she crossed her eyes.

Dean burst into laughter, but before more than a second _HA_ had truly come out, he switched to clearing his throat, straightening out his expression as he heard Sam's clomping footsteps approach. "You like onion? Tomato? Pickles?" he asked.

The smile faded away and the eyes looked sad when she answered. "I'll happily take whatever you'd like to give me."

Dean responded with a small nod, getting back to it as Sam came in holding his tablet, sitting down next to and then scooting in closer to Jane. "Hey, you just fall off the angel train?! Give her some space!" Dean snapped, and not without a mild frown.

Sam met the frown with raised eyebrows and full-on snark in his tone. " _Maybe_ I'm just trying to block the smell of motor oil and ---"

"What's this?" Jane interrupted quietly, looking at the tablet.

Sam turned his attention back to what was in front of him. "I've been trying to get info together. Scanning old notes in, writing up a few things. Like summaries and stuff. Stuff to just help explain, maybe show you what... stuff... like how you showed me things about our family that we maybe didn't know? Well... I wanted to show _you_ things about them that we _do_ know. That you don't. Maybe. The..."

"The stuff."

"Mmm-hmm."

Dean rolled and then closed his eyes briefly. _Hoo-boy_.

The entire time Sam spoke, Jane was still so unusually solemn, only looking at him sporadically, continuing that repetitive rubbing of one thumb over the glossy nail of the other.

And Dean kept slicing tomatoes.

And Sam felt himself starting and stopping, then starting again from a new point, each of the siblings caught in their own loop.

The youngest Winchester was simply not doing well trying to sum up in a clearly laid-out sentence or two what it was he and Dean did, stumbling in particular over a way to explain their typical clientele, their targets, their tools-of-the-trade, and it was when Jane finally responded to the rambling that they found themselves thrown off-balance in a way they'd not anticipated. 

Head still down, she'd waited a moment before she did so, though not much above a whisper. "I think the word you're looking for is..."

Dean's slicing paused, he and Sam glancing at each other and then back to her.

"...supernatural."

Dean set down the knife, quietly eased his way over to the table. Sam's jaw dropped ever-so-slightly. They both studied Jane as she went on.

"You're in the family business. Saving people, hunting things. _That's_ what you do." Jane looked up at them, still eerily calm but a corner of her mouth twitched upwards for the briefest of moments. "Roll credits," she added lightly, letting her gaze immediately fall again.

"H-how..." Sam ventured.

A small shrug in response.

"Came with the flood?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," she replied, and slowly, stretching the word into several more syllables beyond the one it actually contained.

_The flood_ \- that's what Dean and Sam had taken to calling Jane's experiences back in the bunker on the night of the chapel incident. It was Mose who'd unwittingly coined the term, after they'd described what had happened. He'd just stood there shaking his head slowly, empathy written all across his face as they spoke.

"It's a flood, man," he'd told them. "The first time it happens. And none of that two-by-two, cram-it-in-an-ark crap. There's no place to stick it all, no order to the entry. Just all at once. All at once."

That Jane had managed to sort anything out at all - even given three months' time off, as it were - was impressive. Mose still hadn't sorted all of his menagerie, and he'd had forty-plus years on the clock. Sam and Dean thought it was a wonder he'd never punched out. Over those months, they'd tried not to think about if their sister had... if she _would_.

"You're freaking me out," Dean stated bluntly.

Jane brought her head up, brow creased.

"He means how... you're just... you're really _calm_ ," Sam clarified.

Jane cut her eyes over to Sam, then ran both hands over her face. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, and when she brought her hands back down, they were both relieved to see less catatonia and more _Jane_. She chewed on her lower lip, thinking for a moment before she looked to both of them, saying, "Guys - I flapped my wings."

All three stared at each other in silence for a few moments.

"Just... that... let's all let that sink in a second, how those _words_ are coming out of my mouth right now - I _flapped_ my _wings_ so, you know, the bar? The bar's real, _REAL-_ real high." Dean and Sam looked at each other, and back to her, nodding. Jane nodded in return. She looked to Sam's tablet, cleared her throat, then asked, "So - whatcha got there, Bud?"

"If you're not up to it, or not interested, or-" he began, but Jane interjected.

"I am interested in every single bit of it." She shifted in her seat, angling towards him, and stretched her left arm out, just beginning to slide the tablet closer when Dean saw it.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed, coming around to Jane's back and stooping over her, reaching around and taking her forearm into both of his hands, flipping it to show Sam what he'd spotted. "What happened?" he asked Jane - that is, the top of Jane's head - gruffly.

"Jeez, Dean!" Sam admonished, whapping his brother's upper arm, and _hard_. "What the hell?!"

Jane sighed, telling them, "It doesn't hurt."

"Are you not _seeing_ this?!" Dean asked Sam, ignoring Jane completely.

Sam looked - the bandaging across her left palm and wrist was no longer white, rather it was tinted a familiar reddish-brown hue. Definitely blood. Mostly dried, but some still very fresh. "Aw, Jane, what..." Sam began, and leaned in, taking her arm from Dean. He scooted the tablet away with his elbow and laid her arm down gently on the table.

Dean stood up straight again, took a small step back, and crossed his arms, his jaw tensed.

"It doesn't hurt," Jane repeated, either too tired or too apathetic to fight off their fussing; neither brother could really tell.

Now it was Sam who sighed, and he looked up at Dean, saying, "Can I trust you not to be yanking her around while I-"

"Yes, _go_ ," Dean interrupted. He took Sam's seat after it was vacated, completed the trifecta of sighs as he began to look for the place where the end of the bandaging lived so he could unwrap it. "Let's get a look at whatever that assclown's done now," he muttered.

Jane laid her free hand atop one of his, and when he looked up, he was met with blank, unreadable eyes. "Thank you for singing to me," she said.

Dean blinked, stuttering out a protest. "Wha... I... I wasn't... that wasn't..."

"It _was_. You have a beautiful voice."

"Many karaoke bars across many states would disagree."

"Take a compliment, Dean."

He tried unsuccessfully to read her for a moment, but didn't argue. Didn't say thank you, either. Instead, he thought he'd explain. "The thing... the Betty... thing... it said you liked music, but it kept playing all that classical cra.... stuff."

Jane waited silently.

"Um, I don't... I mean, you'd mentioned in the car that time..." Dean cut himself off with a huff, started again. "I know Heart, okay? _Okay?_ And I know Lauper. And Benatar...."

A slow smile from Jane.

"....and Madonna, you know, _good_ Madonna, I know _all_ those, all right?"

"I know," Jane told him softly. She leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Secret's safe with me."

Dean frowned, slipped his hand from under hers and went back to his search. He'd just gotten the end of the bandage untucked when Sam came back in, setting scissors, a roll of gauze and a roll of medical tape onto the table. A towel was thrown over his arm.

"I'm gonna get the burgers started, Nurse Sammy'll get you squared away," Dean announced, letting her arm flop from his hands and back onto the table abruptly.

Sam shot him a _look_ , but took his seat back without comment.

"No fish tacos?" Jane asked, but not to anyone in particular.

Sam had laid the towel, followed by her arm, across his lap. She was watching as he carefully unwound the strip of what turned out to be fairly thick cloth from her arm. "You remember that?" Sam asked.

Jane nodded. "Mmm-hmmm. Why?"

Sam shrugged, still slowly peeling away the cloth, winding it up as he went. "Sometimes when things that... you know, traumatic things-"

"Didn't know what kind of fish you'd like," Dean interrupted from his station at the island. He was busily spicing ground meat and then forming them into fat discs. "Besides, it's not as good if it's frozen. Like those pies of yours - don't keep too well."

Jane looked away from Sam's hands and over his shoulder, to Dean, hesitant when she said, "Were you..."

Dean glanced at her - now she was _quite_ readable and, if he was right, appeared to be feeling guilty for some unknown reason. " _What?_ " he asked, and with another frown.

"Never mind."

"What?" Sam asked, and with a gentle squeeze to her arm.

Dean muttered under his breath, suddenly frustrated, back to aggressively shaping the burgers.

"Was he getting some every week or something?" she whispered.

Sam nodded. "Pretty much, yeah," he whispered back. "When we weren't on the road."

"How long?"

Sam looked at her for a few moments.

"Tell me," she pressed.

"A while."

Jane dropped her eyes back down to her arm again, so Sam followed suit. There, in the center lower portion of her palm, no bigger than the tip of a finger, was a perfectly circular hole. The tiniest bit of blood seemed to be pooled deep inside, but made no move to emerge. Sam was debating telling Jane what it was from.

"It's from pressing down, on the cane," Jane said.

Sam's eyes shot up to hers, the flash of a thought running through his brain, wondering if she knew what he'd been thinking.

"But I know what it _was_ from, Sam," she went on calmly. "I mean, the hole."

"H-how... how do you..."

"It's okay. It'll heal. I'm not worried."

A slam from behind them as Dean continued to beat patties into submission, and if Sam wasn't mistaken, a bit of annoyance flew over Jane's face, which made him grin and he wasn't about to try and hide it. Jane noticed and grinned with him, then sat up a little straighter so she could see Dean as she spoke.

"Hey, Dean, that cow's dead. But I'm willing to bet there's a gun around here somewhere if you wanna make good and sure."

Dean kept working, but she saw his jaw twitch.

"And don't smile. It'll _know_. So whatever you do, _don't smile_."

Now he looked up, raised an eyebrow, and said, "You mock my methods, Jane, but you'll see. This is gonna be the best burger you've ever had."

Jane turned her attention back to Sam, who was done unwrapping and seemed to be at a standstill. "Wanna show me what you got on there?" she asked, nodding her head towards the tablet.

"You sure?" Sam replied, still unsure. She didn't _seem_ overwhelmed, but...

"Yeah. We'll let this breathe for a minute. Unless it grosses you out."

Sam laughed, causing a lighter mood to immediately settle over the room. "Ha! No way. It'll take a _lot_ more than that."

Jane smiled, replying, "Okay, then. Tell me a story."

"You'll regret those words," Dean warned.

They moved the towel and her arm up to the table, and Sam slid the tablet closer, flicked open a folder. "These are some of the earlier things we tackled... just summaries and a few pictures of... you know, sketches from lore books and stuff that turned out to be pretty accurate. Nothing too heavy. And--" he opened another folder, pointed to a video file "--this can be for later. It's some of what Dean and I were up to when you... well, when it looked like you... um..."

Much as she'd done with Dean earlier, Jane laid her hand - the bandaged one - over one of Sam's. "I'm sorry I left for so long," she told him, but paused, waiting til he looked at her before she continued. "Won't happen again. At least... not without an ETA of some sort first. Cross my heart."

Sam considered this, then nodded.

"Believe me?" Jane asked with raised eyebrows.

"I want to," he replied honestly.

"Then I'll have to do my best to make sure you will."

Dean slapped meat on what was apparently piping-hot metal, judging by the loud hiss that startled both Jane and Sam. Jane widened her eyes in an over-exaggerated manner at Sam in reaction. They snickered.

"Why does it feel like he's pissed off?" Jane whispered.

"You'll get used to it," Sam whispered back.

"Okay," Jane said, raising her voice to normal. "So you've taken to filming your adventures?"

"No! Oh god, no, this was... this was just for you," Sam explained. "I mean, I like visuals, thought maybe you'd like to actually _see_ some of it-"

"Absolutely," Jane assured him, and Sam was beyond relieved to see her so engaged. She still seemed worn-out and not completely all-there, but it was clear she was trying very, very hard. And he didn't get the feeling she was just pretending to be interested.

"It's about this string of small - well, what we _thought_ were gonna be small - cases." Sam stopped and his expression went a bit pinched.

"And... turned out?" Jane prompted.

"Oh, things turned out," Dean interjected, walking a few steps toward them, pointing a spatula in Sam's direction. "You better be telling the _whole_ story, if you're going to put her through what you put _me_ through."

Jane looked back down at the tablet. In the folder with the video file were multiple text documents. She read their labels aloud as she swiped. "Blackwater Devil Mule, Moll Dyer Rock, Mithras... oh, well, a _very_ Merry Christmas to you ---"

Sam laughed.

"--- Craigmiles Child Spirit, Confederate Soldier Amputee, Echidna-underscore-possibly..."

Jane paused, glanced up at Sam.

"You'll have to see it."

Jane nodded, continued. "Bog Walkers, Manticore Litter, Morrígna-slash-Fox Sisters..." She glanced up again, arched an eyebrow. "Well, how's about that."

Sam grinned. "That one's a good read."

Jane kept scanning. "Lithopædion... oh, well, Sam, those are ---"

"Not when they're out walking around," Dean tossed over his shoulder, casually as could be.

"Not when they're... yeah, sure, of course. How silly of me," Jane replied.

"Anyway, I just got some pictures and footage and Betty helped me make it into a... you know, a less-boring-than-musty-books visual aid," Sam summed up.

"You made me a montage of monsters, that's so... so..."

"Crazy," Dean once more chimed in.

"Will you just _cook?_ " Sam snapped.

"I was going to say 'thoughtful'," Jane told them.

"He tortured me!" Dean announced, plopping finished burgers onto a plate and putting more on to cook, followed by once more coming in their direction, wielding the spatula in an accusatory manner. "Go ahead. Tell her what you did to me."

"Stop acting like a victim!" Sam shot back, but with a wide smile. Then he looked to Jane. "He lost a bet. I mean, we _all_ lost bets, that's what's with the..." Sam trailed off, gesturing to his nearly-bearded jaw and small ponytail.

Jane nodded as if she understood. She did not. But she was still new to this whole brother thing.

"So Dean lost another one, and the terms were that I got to pick the music we listened to. For the whole trip."

"Well that doesn't sound so-"

"Oh it was - just wait!" Dean informed her with slightly crazed eyes, and once again pointed the spatula - and his ire - exclusively at Sam. "Did you and Go-Go-Gadget put a soundtrack to your documentary? 'Cause I don't know that it'll _really_ paint the picture you're going for unless -"

"What did you _do_?" Jane asked Sam, fighting and failing to keep the amusement off of her face.

"I... opted to get Dean in the holiday spirit. I mean, we knocked out other things along the way, and since those weren't part of the deal, I didn't play the song when-"

"Wait, stop:  _the_ song?" Jane asked. She glanced over at Dean - he'd walked away again, his back to her, flipping burgers, but he was shaking his head, apparently disgusted at just the very memory of his ordeal. And Sam was actively fighting bursting into laughter - his shoulders were shaking.

"Dogs barking Jingle Bells?" she pressed. "What?"

"It... it w-was...." Sam was, once more, trying and failing to convey a piece of information succinctly. And Dean then shouted the name of what could have been one of the most annoying - yet catchy - holiday songs, not breaking pace in flipping the hell out of that poor, defenseless meat. Jane's eyes grew wide.

"Ohhhhhh... oh, _Sam,_ " she said, bringing her hand to cover her mouth.

"Oh, _SAM!?_ " Dean repeated, whipping around with a _look_.

"Your meat is gonna burn," Jane warned.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbled, removing the last of the finished burgers and depositing them with the rest.

When she returned her eyes to Sam, Jane couldn't quite pin the look that had lit on his face, and he noticed, so he shot her what she could tell was a forced, lopsided grin. "What?" he asked.

She didn't grin back, though she spoke gently when she answered his question with another. "But more than this stuff... and more than _my_ problems... more's been going on, hasn't it?"

"Not _your_ problems - _our_ problems," Dean said firmly, his hands full as he walked towards the table.

Jane looked to him. " _And?_ "

Dean shrugged, not meeting her eye, setting down various condiments as he answered. "Always something going on."

Sam nodded and sighed. "True."

Jane considered this for about two seconds, then said, "When I'm a hundred percent - and believe me, I'm looking forward to that, weirdness and all - I'm going to be helping you."

She made the statement with such confidence, it visibly startled both men, and they began speaking over each other.

"You can't-"

"You don't-"

"We really don't need-"

"Being in the field is-"

"Hey, you can _totally_ help us with research, you're already good at it, you'll be _perfect_ for it!" Sam suggested, and a little too excitedly, managing to get in a complete sentence.

"Yes!" Dean agreed, and his expression seemed both nervous and optimistic when he turned his head to look at Jane, gauge her reaction.

And as she'd done when they'd performed the same routine the first night the Winchester siblings had been under the same roof in over thirty years, Jane's head had ever-so-slightly moved back and forth between them as they spoke - except this time, the sense of delight and awe was gone. A much more somber feeling had replaced it. And she thought it best to choose her battles.

For now.

"Research is good," Jane acquiesced with a few small nods. "It'll help me learn. Get to know part of your lives."

Dean gave a single, firm nod in response to this and turned away, heading back to the island.

"Try _most_ of our lives," Sam added, though his tone wasn't a terribly angst-laden one.

But at that statement, Jane _did_ feel something like awe. "I don't believe you. Not at all," she said sincerely. "You're more than this, both of you."

"Wanna bet?" Dean asked her, now bringing the burgers and a bag of buns over to the table. Sam jumped up to grab plates and utensils.

"Not done with bets, yet?" Jane countered.

Dean took Sam's seat once again and motioned for her to bring her injured hand to his lap. He grabbed the fresh gauze but then hesitated at the sight of the wound. It was almost closed, still a deep dent in her skin, but no tunneling, no blood. Dean's eyes met Jane's, and she seemed surprised as well. "We should still probably..." he began, and she nodded.

He bandaged quickly and thoroughly, pausing at one point to consider his handiwork before doubling down on her palm. Jane just watched, hating that he and Sam were so good at patching wounds. It was in _her_ line of work to patch wounds. And it pained her that it was part and parcel of theirs, too.

Once their burgers were properly outfitted and plated, the topic hadn't drifted far from cases. Specifically, Dean and Sam were still talking about Jane right in front of her, about their comfort level leaving her alone while they were on the road. Even talking about splitting the work, so one of them would always be with her at the bunker. Jane sat in silence while their strategy session continued.

"Well, and I mean, of course there's Cas, long as he's not helping us out," Dean went on.

"And Mose, he'll still be around," Sam said in a reassuring voice, though Jane wasn't certain if it was directed at her or Dean, seeing as how she was watching Dean cut her already halved burger into fourths for reasons known only to him.

Dean momentarily stopped his work, asking, "Hey, where is he, anyway?"

"He's not here - he and Cas left," Jane said quietly. At the lack of any response, she looked up, noting their questioning stares. "Your friend was concerned about something back at his house," she explained. "Cas volunteered to take him." The brothers both had looks of mild confusion on their faces. "And then, if you're not busy fussing with him, Crowley can always come by and keep me entertained," she added.

Jane could not have described their new expressions if she'd tried - and neither could anyone else who might've been privy to the conversation. It actually made her chuckle, which made Sam's shoulders loosen and Dean's neck less stiff. They each subconsciously began stretching those parts of themselves, unaware up til that point how tense they'd been. Since they'd seen Jane wide awake, standing on the stairs. Maybe for longer.

"He, ah..." Jane paused as she read the room, opted to keep Crowley's regular visits under her hat for the time being. "I was on the roof earlier. He came by for a visit."

Dean sighed and his cutting became more aggressive.

"He's not interested in hurting me," she pointed out gently.

"Oh yeah?" Dean shot back, his tone as sharp as his knife.

"Yeah!" Even though she said it with a hint of a amusement, Jane's retort came with a surprisingly firm and forceful tone of her own, and she held Dean's eye, telling him, "Crowley's interested in charming me. He's harmless. At least, to me."

Dean broke their staring contest first - and without comment - sitting down and picking up his burger, then taking a huge bite.

"Anyway, I think I made a bad first impression," Jane went on. "On your friend, Mose. I saw him before they left, and... well, I just wasn't feeling very... very..."

"Jane, nobody expects you to be - you know, all happy and friendly. You don't have to pretend, we just want you to be... to be _you_ ," Sam said.

Dean took another bite and Sam nudged his foot under the table. He glanced up, chewed a bit faster, then with a not-quite-swallowed wad of burger, turned his head to Jane, stating, "I'd be a real bitch if I were you."

Jane seemed to consider this, nodding and raising her eyebrows a bit as she picked up one of her neatly sliced burger quarters.

"I can do that."

.

* * *

.

NORTHWEST AROOSTOOK, MAINE 

Castiel had arrived with Mose a purposeful half-mile from his home, leaving him in a small wooded area briefly while he went closer, not entering the house, but assessing if there was any present danger. And what he discovered - what he _didn't_ \- made him uneasy. Mose saw it written all over the angel's face upon his re-appearance.

"What is it?" Mose asked immediately.

Castiel had remained silent, simply transported them to the front stoop.

Mose's SUV was in the driveway, but not Max's car. He'd left the intern cash for a cab and the spare key so he could pick it up from the airport. Left him a gas card, too, told him to make use of both - he'd come to think of the kid as his responsibility, hated him driving that crappy hatchback of his on all those icy Maine roads. Still. Didn't mean that Max was there... though it troubled Mose to think it _did_. The door was ajar, but that's not what took Mose's breath away. It was the aura coming off of the entire structure. He didn't know what various colors meant to others like him, he just knew what _his_ colors meant, and the chill creeping all over his body had nothing to do with the weather.

It had everything to do with the sharp tones of brown, perhaps some maroon dashes underneath, but with a persistent flat grey cast to it. It was a bizarre mixture that Mose couldn't say he'd come across before, and it was distant. Almost a shadow. Max had always given off a yellowish-orange that sometimes drifted towards a pinkish-red. It practically lit up the entire house. He'd actually had to wear lightly-tinted glasses for the first month or so they'd shared the attic space. He'd just been so _vibrant_.

Mose looked at his watch, then to Castiel. "Cas, Max might've been here. He doesn't have classes this afternoon and he'd be out here instead of at the dorm or the student radio station, and... he..."

"I didn't see a living person inside," Castiel said, choosing his words carefully.

Mose didn't press, merely looked to the door.

"I'll go first," Castiel offered, and Mose didn't protest.

"There's music playing... somewhere," Mose said in a hushed tone, before his foot had even crossed the threshold. He also couldn't hear any breathing. No vibrations. No creaky attic floorboards. Not a thing but his own breaths easing in and out.

Castiel glanced over at that - _he_ couldn't hear any music, but then again, he was distracted. He returned to studying the hallway they'd entered. There was a strangeness to the walls along the narrow path, something he couldn't pin down.

"I know that song," Mose murmured. "I _think_ I know... but it's.... off, it's... wobbly... the notes... the frequency isn't..."

"Mose, I don't want to startle you."

"With what?"

Castiel glanced at him again, hesitant at first, but then let his eyes flick to being completely cobalt blue. Mose blinked a few times, though he didn't ask questions. Castiel volunteered an answer anyway. "I need a better look at the walls."

"Well... uh.... you do you."

They walked at a slow pace down the hallway, and Mose followed the angel's lead, also surveying the walls. There were faint squares everywhere along the faded peach-colored paint he found abhorrent, made by years of grime that surrounded more framed needlework and ancient velvet art than could be found at any thrift store or garage sale in the world.

"The old broad who owns this place - she's got a thing for the 'Dogs Playing Poker' end of the decorating spectrum," Mose said. "These walls should be lined with the crap."

But the lack of decor wasn't what caught Castiel's attention - there was a new sort of artwork gracing the walls, extending from the hallway into the living room. At least, he _thought_. Traces of curved lines were coming into focus, forming designs he couldn't quite make out. In the living room, they found all the frames neatly stacked on the floor in front of the sofa. Every wall there was also bare, but nothing beyond the artwork seemed disturbed.

"Anything out of place?" asked Castiel.

"No. Not that I can tell..." Mose answered, then trailed off.

"Something else is bothering you," Castiel observed.

"I don't know what could've gotten in."

"How do you mean?"

Mose turned to him. "Even though I don't put a lot of stock in it - my aunt really ground into me the importance of guarding your space. I pried up baseboards and windowsills, coated the gaps in epoxy and salt, then put it all back. That godawful fake wood paneling?"

Castiel followed Mose's pointed finger - the paneling was everywhere, from the midpoint of the walls down to the long-flattened green shag carpeting.

"Popped a bunch of those off, too. Busted through the drywall, there's hex bags all over this joint. Pulled up carpeting here and there, whipped out the paint - nice assortment of devil's traps, even a few angel sigils." Mose paused, frowned slightly as he gave Castiel a brief up-and-down, adding on, "And speaking of ---"

"Long story," Castiel cut in, back to focusing on the walls. He took a few steps to the side so he could look down the hallway once more. Then he looked back to Mose. "I may need you to go outside. I don't want to risk... I don't want to _endanger_ -"

"You won't."

"You can't possibly know what-"

Mose smiled a bit, despite the circumstances. "Man, you ain't got it in you. At least, not right now. You'll edge towards it sometimes... maybe scarlet'll vibrate off you. But you've never been anything but these strong violets and purples. Always got this kind've shimmery black weaving through it. It's solid, Cas. _You're_ solid."

Castiel stared at him, still unsure.

But Mose shook his head, nothing but conviction on his face as he looked right into those dark pools of blue and repeated himself. "You _won't_."

Castiel nodded, but did turn his back to the man. If this went wrong, he'd much prefer blasting through the house and out into the snow-patched landscape than blasting through Mose. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to clear his mind, keep his fists unclenched, his posture steady, his feet planted firmly.

Mose would later say how all he could think about was the cameras he'd take apart and put back together when he was a teenager. He loved the clicks and whirs of the lenses focusing and as he grew older, had more money to spend, he'd occasionally buy an expensive, professional photographer-grade camera just to break it down, see what had changed since his childhood in the world of image capturing. Even toyed with the idea of making something that could capture the auras, though none of his concepts ever panned out.

His angel friend, however, blew anything he'd ever theorized out of the water.

As Castiel was turning in what seemed to be a precise and incremental manner, Mose noted the glow long before he'd gotten a good look at the eyes. It was not bright in the least, only about as strong as a 20 watt bulb, if _that_. But this wasn't the part that stunned him.

Dean and Sam had told him about Jane's eyes, about how sparks of light had organized themselves, though it wasn't the same with Castiel. There were at least two perfect rings, one smaller than the other, both fuzzy versus solid lines. And whatever the angel was looking at, it was cause for an adjustment every now and then. Just like the focusing of a camera's lenses, the smaller ring would occasionally come forward a bit. Sometimes the larger would contract. Other times the two seemed to alter their circular shape, blend together with a twirl, creating an aperture effect.

Castiel had almost finished the rotation when Mose winced, so he took one last moment to finish scanning the final area of the wall across from him, then turned and walked over to Mose, making his eyes return to normal before he asked, "Is everything all right?"

Mose grimaced slightly, glanced around, then back to Castiel, saying, "You first."

"I'm not sure. Symbols I've never seen before. And they're placed sporadically, perhaps erratically. I don't think it's a language, but I can't be certain. In any event, I've memorized them. Now, please - tell me what's wrong."

"That music - I can tell now. It's coming from my studio. From the attic."

Castiel concentrated, listened. He heard it now, too. And Mose had been right - there _was_ something wrong with the frequency. His gaze drifted upwards, following the sound. A dark stain had collected around the light fixture above them. Mose's eyes had followed, then he clenched them shut, shuddering involuntarily. 

"I'll go first," Castiel once again offered, with Mose once again taking him up on it.

And soon, there was little doubt as to who the uninvited guests had been. All along the stairwell to the attic, parts of every wall were torn out, exactly were Mose had placed the hex bags. And then there were the gashes in wallpaper, the areas where paint seemingly melted and dripped from the walls, revealing portions of the painted sigils. Baseboards and floorboards were pried up just enough to glimpse the hardened sealant and salt behind, parts of the devil's traps underneath. The borders of the sigils and traps were undisturbed, the hex bags laid untouched, the salt remained intact. The message was clear:These won't work - we see them. We see _you_.

"We have severely underestimated this new breed of demon," Castiel commented, his measured tone shifting to one of concern.

The door to the attic was wide open, and Castiel couldn't block Mose's view quickly enough. There laid Max on the floor beside an open window, his lips blue, his eyes fixed and dilated, pointed straight up to the ceiling. The blood pooled underneath him had long dried. His hands were tied around an old gramophone which was affixed to his torso at its base with thinner, longer versions of the stakes that had been driven into Castiel that night at the chapel.

Mose turned, stumbling back down a few stairs, gagging. Castiel took several steps into the attic, ignoring the dead intern for the time being, taking in the absolute havoc wreaked upon the equipment. It was a mass of broken pieces and smashed screens, thin ribbons of pulled-apart cassettes snaking through the wreckage. Looking to the gramophone, he considered the music. He knew this song, and it wasn't terribly loud, though it was loud enough for anyone listening to recognize something was amiss; the record was visibly warped. The needle was still fairly close to the outer edge, the handle recently cranked to the hilt so that the eerie tune - Castiel was all but certain - would be playing upon their arrival.

Mose entered the attic, stopping cold just past the doorway, staring numbly at Max's body.

"Does the song mean anything to you?" Castiel asked.

Mose nodded, but didn't look at him or respond.

"Mose?"

"Missy... my aunt... she would sing that to me... to distract me from the..." Mose suddenly turned and grabbed Castiel by his upper arms, pleading, "Fix him! Or maybe we can bring Jane, she could-"

Castiel shook his head, bending his elbows and clutching Mose's forearms, saying, "He's gone. It's been too long. There's nothing we can do, there's not a spark of life remaining within him."

Tears sprang to Mose's eyes as they let go of each other.

"I'll make sure no one can use him," Castiel added.

"Use him?" Mose echoed.

"For a vessel. He won't be violated, Mose. _That_ I can make sure of." At that, Castiel went over and knelt, briefly giving the gramophone and the sickly version of _"It Is Well With My Soul"_ a disgusted glance, before hovering his hands over and around the body.

Mose watched the faint glow that appeared, and in no time at all Castiel was standing again, walking back to him. "What was-"

"I've placed sigils on his bones."

"But they didn't protect the house."

"I've learned a few more in my time caring for Jane. I've given Max the full package, as Andrew might say." Mose's face hardened at the mention of the physician's name, and Castiel could tell blame had already been assigned and fixed in stone - but that would have to wait. "We need to pack up. Get everything you need, pile it in one area. We'll bring it with us to the bunker. Leave everything else untouched."

"And just leave _him_ here?!" Mose exclaimed, taken aback by the angel's brusque tone and stoicism, which were beginning to anger him.

"We'll alert local law enforcement tomorrow ---"

" _Cas!_ "

"--- and let them know he's your employee and you've been unable to reach him. They'll likely get calls from his friends and family, too, perhaps even the school. It may be they already have. Max was technically of legal adult age, but it's already been twenty-four hours. And this place is so far outside of town, there's a chance ---"

Mose nodded, ran a hand over his face as he cut in, saying, "No, yeah, I know. I get it. We probably have some time on our side."

"But not much. They _will_ come here, regardless. You need to determine if anything of import is missing. If anything of import _remains_ , because if it is taken as evidence for a murder investigation, we'd have to involve innocent people unnecessarily to retrieve it."

Mose nodded again.

"Pull hard drives, even pieces if that is all that remains, gather these tapes ---"

"They're _trashed_ , man ---"

"Mose, _think_ : we've got Betty." Suddenly, the needle hit a groove on the record and began to skip, the phrase _"my soul"_   repetitively wailing at an off-putting pitch. Castiel walked over and carefully lifted the arm off and over. He took in Mose's defeated posture as he came back to his side. Making himself slip back to a more genteel place, he brought his hands to the other man's shoulders, giving them what he hoped was a comforting and reassuring squeeze. "We'll get all this to Betty. And after we know more? We're going to start our _own_ investigation, on _them._ I promise you I will track down those bastards." 

And, after a pause and glance over his shoulder at the gramophone, he added:

"We're bringing _that_ thing to Betty, too."

.

* * *

.

The sound of scratchy, tinny notes accompanied by an overly-vibrato soprano poured into the foyer.

_...someday we'll say and do_  
_Things we've been longing to_  
_Though he's far away_  
_I'll find my love someday_  
_Someday when my dreams come true..._

Jamie frowned as he approached the study. The song playing on the small phonograph his boss kept at the edge of his desk was familiar, but Jamie couldn't quite place it. He'd never cared for old-fashioned things. Jane's love of re-furbished vintage clothes and furniture had been an annoyance. And the same distaste extended to the seemingly never-ending supply of notched cylinders his boss would have playing in what felt like a relentless cycle.

The resonant humming that came along with the music ceased upon his entry, replaced by an enthusiastic voice. "James! How did things go? Smoothly, I take it?"

"Yes, sir. They've come and gone, not long ago."

"The Winchesters?"

Jamie shook his head. "No, sir. Castiel and Mr. Moseley."

"Well, my heavens, it certainly took them long enough! I thought that youngster would've been nice and rotten by the time they arrived."

"No, sir. I kept the attic's window open."

"Of course you did, of course. And you made sure our _other_  surprise was all squared away to welcome them?"

"One of my men stayed behind, kept watch for their arrival. He summoned me immediately, per my order. I personally ensured the music was playing before I made myself scarce."

"James, I cannot express my pleasure. Your attention to minutiae is over and beyond of late."

"I knew how important the musical element was to you, sir," Jamie replied, then gave the phonograph a side-eye. "Um, speaking of the music, might I ask ---"

"Shhh, shhh. This is the best part."

_Someday when spring is here_  
_We'll find our love anew_  
_And the birds will sing_  
_And wedding bells will ring_  
_Someday when my dreams come true_

Jamie remained quiet, watched as a hand came from the darkened back half of the office where his boss sat and lifted the stylus to stop the song. "Go on."

"Well, sir. I was just... may I ask why the music was necessary for ---"

"I would've thought you'd inquire about my _current_ selection. Do you not know this particular delight?"

"No, sir."

"It hails from a tale of a young woman filled with song, who was thought to be imprisoned in a poisoned sleep forever. A young woman who doubted she'd ever regain her rightful home, never dared to hope she'd have her soulmate by her side. Perhaps even believing that love was lost to her forever."

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't follow."

"Dear boy! Your songbird is awake."

Jamie gasped and his stiff posture broke as he began rambling. "When?! How do you _know_ , I mean, is she _okay_ , can she ---"

A deep, melodic laugh came from the darkness. "Relax, James. You're not to worry. Our sources are sound. She's up and about, wandering around the halls of that basement her brothers call home. No singing or dancing of yet. But she is most certainly on the mend."

"When can... could I possibly... is there any way I can see her?" Jamie asked, kneading his hands, rocking back and forth from one foot to the other, a wide grin plastered across his face.

"Calm yourself, son. Not yet. But I've arranged for a welcome back gift to be delivered first thing in the morning. We should be courteous gentlemen, give her some time to adjust. As I'm sure you realize, no doubt that nephew of mine is flooding her head with his nonsense."

"How kind of you, sir, to... I'm sorry, sir, I'm just a bit... I don't know what to say!"

"And it was done on your behalf, of course - used some of my nice stationery and my best handwriting to indicate it was from you."

"Uh... thank you, sir, that was very... would you tell me what ---"

"Just a small token to let her brothers know she's not to be kept to the side. An encouragement, of sorts."

Jamie nodded, not quite sure what else he _could_ do, because it was already done. But Jane was awake. Jane was _back_.

"Smile, my boy. Your springtime is coming. Good things are on the horizon. So _very_ many good things."

.

* * *

.

After they were satisfied Jane was being honest with them regarding the arrangement of pillows they'd stuffed behind her back and under her knees, Sam and Dean stood up straight and took a few steps back from the bed. Both were hesitant to leave her, it was obvious.

"I won't fall asleep again," Jane offered.

They both nodded, but neither moved.

"Sam, would it be too much trouble to ask-"

"No!" he said immediately.

Dean shot Sam a _look_.

"I mean, I'm saying 'no', as in it's no trouble, I'll say 'yes' to whatever."

Dean's _look_ mutated into a new _LOOK_.

"I was just wondering if you'd mind getting Nanny's quilt and my other things from the... that place where I was," said Jane. "I don't need... the pictures on the counter, they can stay. Oh, but you should probably grab the other one, the photo of you and Dean and your parents."

"That's yours," Dean told her.

Jane's brow creased. "Is it your only copy?"

"It's _yours_ ," Dean reaffirmed, and with frown of his own.

"Well... okay. Just til we can think of a better place to put it... so we can all share it. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Sure, no problem," said Sam. "I'm gonna finish cleaning up in the kitchen, then I'll go get all of it."

"There's no rush, really, whenever you can. And thanks, Sam. For all that work you did on the case files, for doing my hair - I know it was a lot to balance."

Sam chuckled. "You'd do it for me, right?" His tone changed to something heavier as he added, "If I could've stopped what happened to you... _that_ you could thank me for, but... I don't need thanks for the rest." He gave her a quick smile, left the room before she could say another word.

"And I'm gonna go take a shower - you good?" Dean asked.

Jane nodded, and he'd turned to go, but looked back when she spoke again.

"And hey, Dean?"

"Huh?"

"You didn't have to do all..." - Jane glanced around the room at the work he'd done, then back again -"...this. And thank you for dinner. And, um, for --"

"You don't have to thank me."

"You're not thanked for all you've done nearly enough. So yeah... Yeah, I do."

Dean blinked, not entirely sure what to do with that, but he nodded in acknowledgment and gave the door frame a few pats before he walked away.

After they'd left, Jane closed her eyes, let her body relax so completely that she slid down, sunk into the mattress, her head now able to rest against the pillows. She was not even remotely sleepy. But it was, blessedly, quiet in her mind, so she wanted to savor it. She wasn't sure how long she'd been like that before her eyes popped open, and she sat up bolt straight, snapping her head toward the doorway, to the person standing in it.

"It's good to see you again," said Andrew.

.

* * *

.

At the same time Dean had finished getting dressed and was walking to the door of his room, more family photos in his hand, Sam had just come to the staircase landing in the lab. The bracelet was in his pocket and the quilt was in his arms, picture frame and storybooks wrapped snugly in the folds.

Dean's free hand was on the doorknob, ready to turn....

Sam's foot was in the air, ready to cross into the bunker....

...and neither action was successful.

.  
/ / / /  
.

"Why did you come here?" asked Jane.

"I wanted to... I _needed_ to make sure you were okay," Andrew replied.

Jane just stared; that wasn't what she was asking. 

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

Dean set the photos on his bed and frowned, planting one hand against the frame and gripping the door knob tightly with the other, twisting and pulling hard. His palm merely slipped over the metal when he moved his hand. He didn't hear even the _beginnings_ of a click of the latch.

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

Sam kicked out, only to feel a scant amount of give, and though he couldn't make out any opaqueness due to the darkness of the landing, he knew. He _knew_ it was a barrier like the ones at the chapel, like the one...

The one Andrew had placed over the entry to the showers the night of the chapel incident.

" _Betty!_ "

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

Dean was wiping both his palms down his jeans, even though there was no moisture to be found on them, and he grasped the door knob once more, one hand gripped atop the other, one of his legs up in the air, his boot planted on the wall. He felt the veins coming up on his neck as he strained, a grunt or two escaping his throat despite a clenched jaw. He was starting to see stars behind his eyelids, he was getting so angry.

It was Andrew's doing, no doubt in his mind, and Dean was mentally cursing himself for leaving Jane alone, for not making Sam stay with her, or just forgetting the shower altogether and staying by her side til Sam returned with her things. He glanced around his room - not a screwdriver or hammer or _anything_ in sight that would be of use. Then his eyes lit on his pillow.

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

Sam dropped the quilt by the doorway and bounded down the stairs, skipping the last two or three, practically sprinting over to the drawers on the far wall. They were without handles, just like they always had been, but he'd expected them to open upon his approach... just like they _had_ been, more and more often over the past few weeks.

_"_ Betty! _"_ he yelled again.

"Sam, I _can't_."

"He's up there with her, isn't he?!" Sam was trying to wedge his fingers into the thin spaces between the drawers, hoping to somehow manage to pry one open, even though he knew logically it was impossible.

"I should not have been aiding you at all."

Sam straightened up, turned, and walked to the center of the room, speaking harshly into the air. "But you _have_ helped me, and you better help me _now_ , I mean it! He has _no_ right to do this! You _know_ this is over the line, even for him!"

"I only did so initially because you were injuring yourself, Sam. You were putting your life in grave danger, danger of a sort you've never had to overcome."

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

Dean had pressed himself against the wall across from the door as much as possible and now he took a deep breath, ready to exhale as he pulled the trigger of the gun, which he currently had aimed at the doorframe just to the side of the knob, right where the latch would be.

Readying himself for the sound of the shot, he let out his breath and squeezed.

All that met his ears was a soft click as the gun refused to fire.

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

Jane jumped as the sound of a loud _THUMP_ reverberated down the hallway. Andrew didn't even flinch, as if he'd known the sound was coming. But he also didn't move in her direction, instead staying along the perimeter of the room as he entered, walking over to the chest of drawers and placing what looked like a thin, rectangular piece of plastic atop it. Then he stopped directly across from her, at the foot of the bed, and put his hands in his pockets, eyes roaming over her.

Jane's eyes had moved with him. Apprehension was written all over her face, she knew it, knew she couldn't hide it. She felt herself getting shaky, and it surprised her to feel a touch of fear. She'd _never_ feared Andrew, and not hours before she'd felt nothing but hatred for him, thought she'd be yelling at him, slapping him the instant she saw him.

_THUMP_

"Jane," Andrew began, but she cut him off by her scream.

"DEAN!"

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

Dean's head had been turned and tucked, but now he looked up, startled initially, then back to bull-headed rage in no time.

"Screw this," he muttered, and tucked his head again, once more launching himself into the door.

He hit his already-bruised shoulder against the same spot he'd been concentrating all his force on for the past two runs. If he couldn't open the door or shoot his way out, he sure as hell wasn't going to just stand there, he'd break through it. Even if he had to dislocate his shoulder and switch to the other one in the process, he would. Because he was at a loss as to what else to do.

.  
/ / / /  
. **  
**

"Ooof!"

Sam had landed on the floor in a half-roll, and was stopped abruptly by the wall opposite the lab doorway, knocking the breath out of him.

"SAM!"

His eyes went wide and he scrambled into a standing position, breaking into a run as he went down the hall and rounded the corner. There was no more screaming, but the sound of splintering wood did reach his ears. And then as he got closer to Dean's room, the sound of something large hitting against something solid told him his brother was as trapped as he'd been.

"Dean! Hang on!"

.  
/ / / /  
.

Jane watched as Andrew's soft and almost desperate expression suddenly morphed into one of confusion at the sound of Sam's voice. He quickly made his way back to the open door, stepped partially out into the hall, looking in the direction of Dean's room. And she sat in stunned silence, not quite understanding what was happening or where her brothers were, but began to feel a bit of hope when realization struck.

Andrew had tried to keep them away.

He'd failed.

They were coming for her.

.  
/ / / /  
.

Sam grabbed the knob on the outside of Dean's door and in one twist, felt the latch and other components inside of it fracture, breaking into pieces, the door now opening with ease. Fortunately for him, Dean didn't realize what had happened, and gave him a nod, a clap on the shoulder, then shot a glare at Andrew as he stomped down the hall and brushed right by, going to Jane without a pause in his stride.

And Andrew didn't make the first move to stop Dean - he and Sam were locked into a stare. Sam's expression was mostly one of annoyance although, admittedly, a faint hint of nervousness lingered beneath. Andrew, on the other hand, was showing all his cards. Following a blink-and-you'd-miss-it once-over of the younger man, the doctor's expression was nothing short of astonished. And then, something else, but Sam didn't bother to figure it out. He broke the stare first, pushing by Andrew just as Dean had, entering Jane's room.

Andrew followed behind, once again standing at the end of the bed as Dean and Sam sat atop it, positioning themselves on either side of Jane. He waited silently for one of them to take the lead. It didn't surprise him in the least when Jane took it.

"I wanna say something to you," she began, and in a shockingly kind tone, looking Andrew right in the eyes.

He held her gaze firmly, trying with everything he had to convey his heartbreak... and love... as much as he could in what he presumed would be his only opportunity to connect with her, as more than her physician, as her friend, for a long time. Maybe even forever.

"I don't know a lot anymore... or maybe I know too much to figure everything out right now... but I know you saved my life and I want you to believe me when I say how much I appreciate it."

Dean and Sam looked at each other, then at Andrew, who had skepticism written all over him.

"I'm saying 'thank you', and I mean it," Jane went on. "Do you believe me?"

Andrew didn't answer right away, studied her face for a few seconds before he spoke. "I do. And you never have to thank me."

"And I never will again."

Andrew audibly gulped. Dean thought he looked pale. _Good_.

"There's an... an echo... is that even the _word?_ It's _inside_ me. It is not some sort of delusion, I am not having some break with reality, I'm not having a Sybil sort-of moment, and it's not possession - I'm not body-snatched, and it's not like I'm tuning in to some paranormal chatter. It's not _any_ of that, is it?"

The room was pin-drop silent, those last few suggestions - that they were even in her mind as options, that she was able to confidently rule them out - stunning her audience.

" _Is it!?_ " Jane snapped.

"No," Andrew answered quietly.

"Who is she?"

"She was someone who was very - who _is_ very important to ---"

"I don't want her damn C.V., I want to know what her name is and how the hell she's hitching a ride. _Inside of me_."

"Her name - the old language doesn't translate well."

Jane stared at him for at least a full minute before she addressed the nothing of an explanation he'd given. "Andy, I tell you what," she began, shaking her head and letting out a small huff. "I get that it's too much. _Way_ too much to go through in one night, and I am tired, man. I've been asleep for _months_ and I am just _exhausted_ , and you know why?"

Andrew didn't respond, so Sam did.

"Why?" he asked softly, and Jane turned her head to look at him.

"Because she... this _echo_ , it's... she is so hurt and lost and angry, and it feels like she's jogging in and out and over and under every inch of me. Like she's hunting, for.... for some sort of _peace_."

Dean frowned, asking, "Are you in pain? You need to tell us if ---"

Jane turned her head to Dean, shaking it emphatically as she told him, "No. No, no, not me - _she_ is. And as stupid as it sounds... I _ache_ for her. Because she's so confused as to why she's... why she's even _here_. She thinks she's not supposed to be here. I guess I just... I just empathize, you know?"

Dean nodded. _Yeah_ , he thought. _Yeah, I do_.

Returning her gaze to Andrew, Jane said, "You gotta throw me a bone, here. _Something_. Because I- I-"

Sam noted Jane had gripped the sides of her robe and she'd balled the fabric up in her fists so tightly, the bandaging on her hands was beginning to stretch with the strain.

"Because, what?" Andrew asked.

"'Cause right now, I'm doing all I can not to come over there and peel the skin off your skull." She waited a beat to let her words sink in before she tacked on a touch of fierce clarity. "And I mean _me_ , Andrew. Not your old girlfriend."

Dean would have never dreamed he'd see Andrew nervous. Not that it _couldn't_ happen, just didn't imagine it'd happen in his own lifetime. But right at that moment, the strapping specimen appeared as if he could've used a diaper change.

Jane looked down at her hands then, her face relaxing, her fists following suit. The faintest first syllable of a potential chuckle passed her lips. She held up a hand in Andrew's direction, palm-side in. "Heh. I guess the only reason I'm not... don't wanna mess up my nails."

And that made Dean bring his own head down a bit, smile a _lot_ , then glance across Jane and over at Sam; he was met with a similar expression.

Jane noticed. She put her hand down, looked to Sam, and then to Dean. Her eyes twinkled with real, true joy.

And _that_ didn't go unnoticed by Andrew.

"Yes?" she asked Dean. "I can't hear those _looks_ , you'll have to speak up."

"Well, uh, Sam was just saying - Can we keep her?"

Sam rolled his eyes but kept a tiny smile on his face.

"And I was saying - I don't know, has she had all her shots?"

"Uh-huh," Jane commented, amused, glancing at Sam for a moment before going back to Dean.

"And then I remembered - we'd fed you. So, you know, you'd... you'd probably keep coming back anyhow." Dean stopped there, the expression of joking and kidding-around fading, gradually being replaced with one of sincerity. Possibly some anxiety. Maybe even a little like the faith he typically wouldn't allow himself.

Jane's response was but one whispered word. "Probably."

Dean replied with two. "Welcome home."

And all three siblings looked back to Andrew, leveling almost identical no-nonsense expressions in his direction. He took in the view for a moment. Jane was tucked tightly into her new bed with more pillows than he knew she liked, but seeing her book-ended by her brothers - one on each side, watching him carefully - warmed his heart. Reminded _him_ of home. Andrew would've smiled at how alike the three were, more than they were probably aware of at this point, but it wasn't appropriate. Beneath it all, they were frightened. And judging by their current collective demeanor, they were also impatient.

He glanced around; the only chair was occupied by several stacked boxes. So he slowly, hesitantly, gingerly - moving in as much of a passive manner as he could manage - took a seat at the foot of the bed. They stared at him, watched as he folded a leg under himself, as he seemed at a lack for words, just looking down at his clasped hands. Andrew looked up at the sound of Dean clearing his throat, and he actually laughed, saying, "I've had ages to prepare for this moment, and I haven't got a clue where to start!"

More staring - and then, all at once, overlapping one another:

"Once upon a time?"

"Call me Ishmael?"

"It was a dark and stormy night?"

"In the beginning?"

"Chapter one, I am born ---"

"Okay, all right," Andrew interrupted, but good-naturedly, holding up his hands in a show of surrender, and the trio quieted. "I, uh... where I'm from is... it's far. I couldn't begin to try and relate my name, or when I was born, but that's not..." Andrew trailed off, and the Winchesters looked at one another, then back at him. He inhaled and exhaled, regrouped. Told himself this was it.

"So. Here we go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	15. Apologias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pieces of a bigger puzzle slowly begin to attach themselves to ones long thought solved; Mose finds himself with a new mission; Jane reads a very special letter; Betty faces a change; Dean meets with Crowley

* * *

  _"Perhaps he knew, as I did not, that the Earth was made round so that we would not see too far down the road."_  
_\- Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke (Isak Dinesen), author: Out of Africa_

* * *

 .

**NOW**

Dear Family,

I see from the last letter you'd stopped at the point where Andrew was speaking with Dean, Sam, and Jane in her bedroom, the night following her awakening.

And... well...

Things could've gone better.

.

* * *

.

**THEN**

"If you fold that and stick a pencil through it, I swear I'm walking out the door."

Andrew looked at the piece of notebook paper in his hand, then to the colored pencils in the narrow tin he'd just pulled out of one of the boxes Sam and Dean had brought from storage. He put the paper down on the desk and stood at the end of the bed, thinking. He crossed his arms as he brought his eyes back to Jane's.

"You don't _know_ that I... I wasn't _necessarily_ going to explain it like that," he told her.

Jane's eyes narrowed. "Sure I do."

Andrew sighed, let his arms go back down by his sides. "Jane-"

"And speaking of time, do you have something to do with how we're aging?"

He ran a hand over his face, trying to wipe away what he knew must have looked - accurately - like frustration. Then he picked up the tablet from the top of the chest of drawers. Sitting down at the far end of the bed again, he bent forward slightly and placed it to the side of her leg.

"I think this is going to help you a great deal," Andrew said, noting the sight of the clear rectangle made Jane frown slightly, more so when he spoke to it. "Betty?"

"I'm here," came Betty's voice, a soundwave appearing within a dark box that had popped up on the opaque screen.

"Jane had a question, thought we'd give everyone a peek at how you're going to help her sort all this out."

"Happy to help. What's your question, Jane?"

"We were talking about the passage of time, and... oh, this is _crazy!_ " Jane exclaimed, balling up her hands into dual fists, the frown deepening. "I don't want a _computer_ to answer for what you've done!" The annoyance in her tone ticked up a bit more as she continued. "Help me wrap my brain around this, okay?"

Andrew nodded.

"We look damn good - definitely look younger than our ages. We _really_ do. But we _have_ aged in the decade-plus we've known each other, it hasn't been a lot, but I've _seen_ it."

Another nod from Andrew.

"I mean, I don't have wrinkles-" Jane flicked her right thumb in Dean's direction "-and I don't have gray hairs." Jane then flicked her left thumb in the direction of Sam.

Dean made a face like he was slightly offended and Sam's brow creased.

"You have fourteen gray hairs," Betty chimed in.

Now it was Jane's expression that changed, eyes widening and eyebrows shooting high. "Uh, say that again?"

"You have fourteen gray hairs." A pause. " _Above_ the waist."

The boys snickered as Jane opened her mouth, seemingly poised to rip the fact-dishing program a new one.

"Betty, _shut up_ ," Andrew ordered through grit teeth.

"Maybe let's move off time-and-distance stuff?" Sam suggested.

"You got it!" Jane exclaimed in a forced-chipper tone, giving his thigh an open-handed _whap_ that made Dean jump. He'd long since had his head propped back against the headboard, trying not to pass out from boredom.

"Let's talk how I managed to POOF into the chapel, and then POOF a whole bunch of people - _people_ , well, you know, a demon, an angel, whatever the hell I am or _we_ are-"

Dean made a face, saying, "Um, _hello?_ "

"-back here afterwards. Oh, what did that murdering scum-sucker ex-nightmare of mine call it... Displacement? Dispersal?"

"That works. Okay. What can I tell you?"

"So - what, the person doing it... ha, _person_ , listen to me, there I go again! They have to... let's see, first things first: calculate the rotation of the earth, know all the elevations so they don't get clipped at the knees or dropped out of thin air, depending on which direction they were headed? Guess that hopefully, _maybe_ , some parks and rec committee hasn't put a bench in your chosen spot in a playground in some rando county in the mid-west?"

"Jane, just-"

"And what would happen, their atoms could... what term are we using? Regroup? Reconstitute? What if they did that _around_ the bench? Or a boulder? Or a car?"

Andrew opened his mouth to respond, but Jane plowed forward, absolutely on a mission.

"Does it also mean 'displace' in that _that_ object gets popped back to where _they_ started? Does it get pushed to the side? And if so, what if it gets pushed _onto_ somebody?"

" _Jane!_ "

" _WHAT?!_ "

"I can't simply... Look, it's like Nanny would say when you'd get worked up - you're getting into the weeds. And right now, in a major way." When Jane stared at him hard for a moment, then glanced away, he didn't know if it was to calm herself or gear up for another rapid-fire round.

Everyone was quiet for a few moments.

"At the risk of being really cliché - what are you thinking?" Andrew finally asked.

Dean elbowed Jane gently and she looked to him with raised eyebrows.

"I feel like I'm gonna puke from just thinking this, but, uh..." Dean trailed off, glanced up at Andrew, looked back to Jane. "I'm... well, I agree with Andrew. On _this_ one. Maybe let's just see about _you_ getting five-by-five before we light the rest of the dumpsters on fire, yeah?"

Jane thought on this briefly, and nodded.

"Okay, then," said Dean. "Where do you wanna start?"

"Maybe the chapel? What happened to you that night?" Sam asked.

"That's fine," Jane replied in a quiet voice. She sat back, propping herself against the pillow-lined headboard, looking down at her crossed feet rather than at anyone else in the room.

"When Castiel injected you with everything at once - on top of your routine meds that you'd already had, the extra we'd had to give you in the days and weeks prior - it activated some things in your genes that I'd wanted to leave dormant," said Andrew.

"'Things'," Sam repeated.

"I'm still working on narrowing down the cause, and the best course to take for the wing situation--"

Jane let out a huff under her breath.

"--but I'm confident we'll get that squared away. The other unexpected element was the... the echo you're describing. As I told your brothers, however, Castiel saved your life. I genuinely don't believe you'd have survived. And you saved his life, as well. You should be proud of yourself."

Jane's eyed widened. " _Me?!_ I didn't do a damn thing!"

Suddenly, she clamped her teeth and a hiss slipped out as she leaned forward, jerking an arm around to touch her back. Andrew's eyes went wide and he also leaned forward, extending his arms, but stopped moving when Dean held out a hand, issued a simple warning.

"Nope."

He leaned back, but said, "Janey, please. _Please_ do everything you can to stay calm, I'll teach you to control all of this, but it is very dangerous at this point to ---"

Jane removed her hand, whatever she'd felt apparently dissipating, but remained sitting up straight, interrupting Andrew. "Why are his eyes like they are? Why aren't mine like that?"

Dean and Sam shared a confused look.

"That's part of what I'm trying to tell you - his have an inherently protective function, and yours do not. His... development... is actually an older form, because... when he was being..." Andrew cut himself off, glancing away for a moment and shaking his head before he went on. "That part doesn't matter right ---"

"It matters to _her_ , or she wouldn't have asked," Sam tersely cut in.

Andrew momentarily seemed poised to snap back at him, but instead looked once more to Jane, asking, "Do you want me to get specific? _My_ brand of specific?"

" _Yes._ "

"Nictating membranes are a very old characteristic in angels that was corrected for and substituted with what we found to be a better functioning, protective mechanism - a vitreous flooding of the same sort of matter. And as you know from all the Sunday school you were subjected to, angels and demons are cousins of a sort. This flooding is what you'll have noted in Jamie's eyes, though it happens nearly instantaneously, human eyes wouldn't be able to catch the change unless there were something combating the effect and slowing the process. All demons share this attribute, as do some other beings you'll learn about, as do I. As do _you_. But it isn't an intuitive function for you - you'll have to learn how to bring it up and send it back on demand until it's routine."

Andrew's gaze had shot over to Dean briefly during his explanation, but it went back to Jane almost as soon as it had left; the action wasn't missed by either brother.

"Except Cas didn't have that?" Jane asked.

"Only a very small, elite number of leaders had this ability ---"  
  
"'Leaders'?"  
  
"The very first of their kind, the ones you'd call archangels. The newer angels... newer than the ones with which I was familiar... possessed the nictating membranes. Best I can surmise, it was taken away so that all of their... so that their grace emissions would strike quicker, and with more impact. Neither I nor any of my colleagues would have _ever_ condoned such an unsafe decision, not for those on the receiving end, nor for the safety of the angels themselves."  
  
"You're saying... so you're saying that at some point, the decision was made to... to... I don't know what I'm trying to ask," said Jane.  
  
Andrew had a touch of sorrow on his face and in his voice when he replied. "They weaponized grace."

Dean and Sam sat in stunned silence at this revelation. Dean had shared with Sam that Andrew had admitted he - and these yet-to-be-identified colleagues - had been around since their concept of the beginning of time, plus his referencing of heaven as a past residence. The fact that he spoke with such intimate knowledge of angel physiology, the clear inference he'd had some sort of input in their development - it was more than a little jarring. But they were shaken out of their curiosity when Jane spoke again almost as soon as Andrew had finished with his answer.

"Who is 'they'? Who did it?"

"I'm not ready to discuss it."

"Is it something to do with whoever this mentor is of Jamie's?"

Andrew didn't verbally respond, though his expression was pained, as if the answer to the question held with it something of a private, personal nature - a personal _weight_. Jane didn't appear to be angry. On the contrary, she seemed to accept it; or else, she didn't care enough to push.

"Why did those people hurt Cas?" she asked.

Because she didn't ask more questions about her eyes, Dean got the distinct impression she wanted to keep the subject off of herself for the time being - and he was going to back her up. "Yeah, that's a good question. I've been wondering that, myself," he said.

"And I wish I had an answer for you - I'm unsure why... who... _what_ the purpose was for their actions, and why _him_ , specifically."

"What does that mean?" asked Sam.

"I don't _know_ ," Andrew responded testily. "That's the _point_ , Sam."

The physician's voice continued to be strained every time he spoke to Sam, and it ticked off Dean, who said, "Look, speaking of not having a clue - I don't know _what's_ going on between the two of you, but what say we keep this on questions Jane has, all right?"

Silent nods from both Sam and Andrew, Dean gave an acknowledgment nod, and after another nudge to prompt Jane, she spoke.

"Did you know who Cas was - _what_ Cas was - this entire time?"

"Of course. But I wasn't certain how much he knew about me." Andrew hesitated, then added, "I opted to let it play out."

"We sat right in there," Dean said, pointing to the wall that was in the same direction as the library. "We were _right there_ , talking about the spying Cas did and what my theories were and what Sam was thinking. I mean, you're full of it. Bottom line. It's bull. You knew _plenty._ "

"Many years ago, I changed my mind about... about your privacy. Regarding all of you. It's not my place to take that from you, it's not mine to have, even if it means extra data."

"Data for _what?!_ " Dean exclaimed, but his outburst was not acknowledged, the doctor's eyes back to being fixed upon Jane.

" _No_ part of us belongs to you," Jane said to Andrew, and slowly, like she was trying to explain what it means to have a conscience to a psychopath; in a way, she thought perhaps she _was_.

"Betty's directives were - _are_ \- to only tell me if there is a physical danger to both or either of your brothers that is above a certain point on a scale which ---"

Sam sputtered out something in between a scoff and an abrupt piece of a laugh. "A _scale_... I can't..." He glanced at Dean, shaking his head, then went to practically gawking at Andrew. "What the hell has to rank high enough for you to have intervened, huh? I mean, where does, I don't know, _death_ fall in there?"

Andrew raised an eyebrow at Sam and his voice was flat when he replied. "Are you currently _dead?_ "

Sam glared.

Jane stiffened and felt herself flushing with anger again. She held out her left hand, put it between Andrew and Sam, interrupting their line of sight on each other, and snapped her fingers once, harshly, so that the pop was loud and filled the room. " _Hey!_ "

Andrew's face softened as he looked back to her.

"No rhetorical questions. You don't get to question him - _either_ of them - not even like that," Jane said firmly.

It was quiet for a moment, then Andrew spoke again, having noticed the new bandaging. "You're using the cane on the wrong side."

"Sorry?" Jane replied coldly.

"It's... your left hand was the most recent place that I had the... never mind. You should be using it on the right side, anyway."

Jane just looked at him, her lips in a tight line, then switched gears yet again. "Can you see the future?

"What?"

"Stop _saying_ that!" Jane yelled, and she must have felt her eyes react because she reached up and rubbed them briefly before blinking a few times and continuing. "How did you know Sam was gonna be hurt and taken to that hospital? How did you know... _how_... because you started going on interviews before Dean... before he... I _know!_ "

Dean shared a _look_ with Sam - they were wondering how much it was that Jane _did_ know.

"I _know_ , because I was the one coordinating with _their_ coordinators, and booking the flights, and..." She trailed off, a lost expression overtaking her face.

"I didn't have any idea that would happen," Andrew answered. "I sense you believe I control every aspect of your... I don't track where Sam and Dean are at a given time, I have a vague idea, but I have not interfered with the course of their lives."

"Just mine, huh?" she replied, her voice encased in bitterness.

"So, what, it was destiny?" Dean asked.

"How did Cas get out of those woods? He was in no shape to just _go_ ," Sam added.

Dean frowned at Sam. "And you never asked him?"

"Neither did you!" Sam exclaimed.

"What happened to keeping this on Jane?" Andrew interjected, returning to the measured tone he'd had at the start of the almost two hours he'd been speaking with them.

Sam's neck and face flushed as he said, "Hey, here's an idea! Maybe Jane _should_ take the lead ---" he jerked his gaze away from Dean, training it on Andrew "--- and _she'll_ make some decisions for once, that okay with everyone in this room?" To cap off his point, Sam wrapped a loose arm around Jane's shoulders. He looked at down at her, surprised when she tilted, relaxed against him. And Dean immediately became concerned because she began to get that glazed-over look again, the one she'd had when they first saw her in the garage.

"I don't care," she whispered, letting her eyes close slowly.

Sam took a deep breath, exhaled, then looked away from Jane and back to Andrew, his voice calmer this time. "When Cas would follow you, in the mornings - sometimes he saw you go back to the apartment and sometimes you'd just... you'd vanish. You knew he was following you, yeah?"

"I did."

But a bit of guilt washed over Andrew with those two words, and Dean caught it, asking, "You weren't actually going in, to Jane, not every time, were you?"

Andrew brought his eyes down, saying, "No."

Dean glanced at Jane. "Jane, you told us ---"

She opened her eyes and lifted them to meet his, a small sigh escaping before she admitted, "I knew you'd worry. Towards the end of... before all this... he was hardly ever there at all."

So it was that Dean and Sam found themselves glaring at Andrew for what was probably the thousandth time since they'd all been gathered in Jane's room, but Andrew remained silent.

"Well?!" Dean demanded gruffly.

"Jane, you weren't... you weren't doing well. And I think deep down, you know it. It was very important that I worked on the things that have troubled you from the start, the things that have had nothing to do with my... with _me_. They were coming up again, with a vengeance. I suspect one of the reasons your body took so well to everything else, maybe even the reason these extraneous things are presenting themselves... perhaps they're just filling in gaps."

"Huh?" Sam said.

"I don't know."

Dean rolled his eyes. "And the crowd goes mild."

"Dean, I've already told you - I'm not omniscient or omnipresent, I'm not some sort of god or magical being who can wave every problem out of existence," Andrew said, desperation creeping back into his voice.

"I don't get it - you were around her when she was a baby. After mom had her, sounds like from the minute she was born. I mean, you said it before, that she was - and I quote - _deathly ill_ ," Sam said, not really asking a question.

But Dean did. "Were you around for us, too? Since _we_ were born?"

Andrew took a few moments, apparently concerned with the wording of his response. "The two of you didn't need the attention she did. You were healthy, perfect babies. I did ensure that in your initial inoculations there was a bit of a ---"

Both Sam's and Dean's jaws had dropped, causing Andrew to stop cold.

"What did you just say?" Sam asked, speaking slowly, as if he was still trying to process what he'd heard.

Yet Andrew's brow creased, his expression just as incredulous. "How do you think it was possible that you've survived everything you have, guys? Seriously, I would really love to know how you've managed that level of denial."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Okay, so - former demon, checking in ---"

"Demon blood ---" Sam said, overlapping him, and then they were talking over each other.

"Angel heals times eighty bazillion ---"

"Possession by angels ---"

"Part-time vampire ---"

"And leftover grace ---"

" _BEFORE_ all that!" Andrew practically bellowed.

"Wings and eyes, boys. Wings and eyes," Jane said, a faint grimace passing over her face as she eased her way off of Sam and sat back up.

"I'm sorry," Andrew said softly.

"Yeah, we're... us, too," said Sam.

Andrew looked back to the brothers, continuing. "Injuries _during_ those times, and since. No way you walk away from all the gunshots to the gut, all the beatings at the hands of creatures with such enormous strength it can't be measured by this world's technology, thrown against countless walls, killing yourself to accomplish some short term  _whatever_ you deemed worthy of such a  _stupid_ move - and you're _not_ stupid. You're smarter than that, the both of you."

They kept quiet, no longer returning his gaze, Dean working his jaw and Sam's chest heaving a bit as he tried to slow his breaths, both straining to calm their flaring anger.

"Perhaps we need to take a break?" Andrew suggested.

And right then, a break found them - possibly _several_ , by the sound of it - followed by some low thumping and the beginnings of raised voices, all coming from down the hall, in the direction of the war room.

"Oh for ---" Dean began, but cut himself off and extended a fist across Jane, over to Sam, who raised his eyebrows.

"No way," Sam said, with what was almost a sneer. "We're not rock-paper-scissoring this. You're closer to the door. _You_ go."

Dean shot him a _look_ , then glanced at Jane. "You okay with me leaving?"

Jane tried to give him a smile, though it didn't quite pass muster. "Yeah. It's okay. Sam's here with me, it'll be fine."

He took a moment to look her up and down as he stood, only moderately convinced he should leave.

Then all heads turned toward the hallway as the voices got louder.

.

* * *

.

Dean walked into the war room to see what looked to him to be piles of junk on the table, a knocked-over lamp with a broken bulb and cracked shade lying on the floor, and Mose furiously dismantling the set-up he'd assembled in the far corner. The man was moving so quickly, Dean didn't have to think twice about how the lamp met its demise. Castiel was standing to the side, arms crossed and looking somewhere between irritated and exasperated.

"I really wish you'd take a moment to think this completely through," the angel was saying, but Mose hadn't slowed in his movements one bit, taking pieces of his equipment over to the non-junked area of the map table as he went.

"The hell?"

It was all Dean said as he entered, frowning, holding his arms up and out to his sides in a questioning manner. Mose glanced at him, but kept his expression rock hard, turning and continuing on his apparent mission to... pack up? Leave? Hard to tell. Castiel joined Dean at the other end of the table.

"Where were you guys?" asked Dean.

Castiel sighed, answering, "We were in Maine, at Mose's house, checking in on his intern, and ---"

"Max is dead," Mose stated bluntly, his tone devoid of any detectable emotion.

Dean closed his eyes briefly, knowing what that kind of grief felt like, and it showed on his face and in his voice. "Mose, man, I'm... I'm sorry, it sounded like he was a good kid. Did he have some sort of ---"

"He was murdered, Dean. By those demons, the kind from the chapel," Castiel cut in.

Dean's frown returned. "How do you know?"

Castiel glanced at Mose, then back. "The house was outfitted with protection as well as it could've been. The demons weren't shy about exposing some of Mose's handiwork."

"Nice try, but this won't touch us?" Dean surmised, and Castiel nodded.

Dean's eyes lit on the gramophone at the opposite end of the table. "And they left you the demon Top 40?"

Castiel followed his gaze. " _That_ is a bit of a mystery, for now. Betty is going to need to analyze it, as well as the rest of this, to see what can be salvaged."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm not sure - but they destroyed all this, so we have to assume there was a reason, another purpose besides..." Castiel gave a small head-tilt in Mose's direction.

Dean nodded, not bothering to put his response delicately. "Besides the fact that they couldn't get to Mose, so they did the next best thing. Yeah, you're right - we need to figure out this angle."

Mose suddenly stopped his work and whipped around, his demeanor still cold as ice. "No," he said firmly, and with a convicted tone.

Castiel's brow furrowed. "Mose, we talked about this, decided that ---"

"No, _you_ decided. I'm going through all this and analyzing it myself, _after_ I trash anything I've let Betty be part of - I'm _done_ with Dr. Horrible, and his lab, and his _everything_. You all feel free to let him mess with your lives - he's messed with mine _enough_."

Mose went back to his unplugging and stacking. Dean took a few steps towards him, gently grabbed his arm as he passed, but Mose immediately jerked away. He set what he held on the table next to the rest, though he didn't continue on with his tasks, merely turned to face Dean. But his face was unreadable.

"What happened to Max---" Dean began, but Mose finished his sentence.

"--- is nothing but Andrew's fault."

Dean opened and closed his mouth, thinking a moment before he decided how to respond. He put a hand on Mose's shoulder, and this time his friend didn't move away. "Maybe. I won't be shocked if that's right, we just... _talk_ to me. Tell me what's in your head, what your plan is. Where else is safe for you? Where are you going with all _this?_ " Dean gestured with his free hand to both Mose's rapidly disappearing work station, as well as what he now noted to be a copious amount of un-spooled tape.

Mose walked over to the broken items and began to sort them, ignoring the question.

Castiel watched Dean watching Mose for a few moments, then Castiel turned and spoke. "It's been quiet of late regarding our other pressing matters. Since you and Sam are occupied, I thought I'd go check around ---"

"No, yeah, that's a good idea. If something's brewing, we don't need to let it get away from us," Dean responded, giving him a grateful look. "Thanks, Cas. I know we haven't really been... you know... lately."

Castiel nodded. "And I want to talk with you, and with Sam. I owe you explanations. And apologies."

Dean shook his head, saying, "No you don't. I'm kinda filled up on owed apologies right now. Anyway, sounds like you've had some real... interesting things going on."

"I want to."

"Then we'll sit down and have a drink or five when you get back."

"I don't know that I should be consuming hard liquor given the changes I've been experiencing."

"Well, then, you can watch me. From what I hear, not much damage can be done to my insides, and I'm kinda jazzed to realize that probably includes my liver."

A touch of a wry smile came to the angel's face, and then he was gone.

"What all else is around here? I mean, space-wise - I get that we're in a basement, but is there anything lower?" Mose abruptly asked.

"Uh, yeah... there's... I mean, we probably _still_ haven't seen all there is in this place," Dean answered, tacking on a touch of a chuckle. "Bunch of storage... more books, if you can believe it... the firing range... a dungeon. Sort-of. More a _chamber_ , if you wanna be... just for if we chain... things. You know. Up."

Mose arched an eyebrow, crossed his arms. "Why am I not surprised."

"You wanting to change rooms? Probably not very comfortable sleeping on concrete."

Mose shook his head, glancing to the pile of broken equipment and back to Dean. "Guess I shoulda asked before he took off. Not gonna be fun carrying all this to my new office."

The side of Dean's mouth quirked up. "So you _are_ gonna stay?"

"I'm not an idiot, D. This place... I still don't get how it all works, but I know I'm monster catnip outside of it," Mose replied. He took a deep breath then let it back out all at once, ran a hand over his head, let his arm flop back down to his side. "Feeling lost right now, man."

"I can help you carry all this, all right?" Dean said. "Go explore, 'cause this is... Mose, this is your home for as long as you want it, okay? I mean it, Sam means it... Jane'll mean it."

"Jane, huh? So it's official, then?"

"Looks like it. _Hoping_ so. Least for a while, til we drive her off," Dean replied, actually letting a real chuckle out this time.

Mose smiled, though it seemed more sad than anything. "You're happy," he observed.

"Wondered if I'd remember it when I saw it," said Dean. A pause. "But you know me..."

"Wondering how long it's gonna last is part of our package, too," Mose commented quietly, finishing the sentiment - the outlook - they'd always shared.

"We're gonna get this done. For Max. For Jane. For all the people who didn't deserve to get pulled into the crap we were born into."

Mose nodded, though Dean didn't get the impression he fully believed it.

"And any room you want down there, it's yours," Dean added. "Hell, take as many as you want. Except the dungeon. For reasons."

After a moment or two of silence, Mose asked, "So. I need keys or a map or a flashlight, fedora and a whip or anything?"

.

* * *

.

Back in Jane's room, she still seemed to have little interest in recent events, as she wasn't letting go of what role Andrew had played in the past.

"I'm not going to discuss your brothers, what information I'm privy to regarding their lives, not without Dean being present," Andrew told her kindly but firmly, and for the briefest of moments Sam felt a touch of respect for him. _Briefly_.

"Fine. That's fair," Jane agreed. "Let's just talk about _my_ past and what's actually real about it."

" _Fine_." Andrew single-word reply came off a bit more clipped than Sam would've liked, and he knew it was showing on his face, but if Andrew noticed he didn't seem to care. "So it's as simple as this: once you were out of immediate danger as a baby, I kept away. Your parents were all-in-all doing well keeping you healthy after the... the boosts in your first rounds of vaccines," Andrew explained. "I had more opportunity to interact with you because of what I'm sorry to say became frequent pediatrician and emergency visits once you were with Millie."

"Then she _was_ with Dad's mom? And _our_ Mom - I mean, she knew Jane?" Sam asked.

Jane looked puzzled. "Why wouldn't she?"

Sam sighed. "It's dumb, we... _I_ was wondering... I thought maybe Andrew faked your death or something, that maybe Mom didn't even know you existed. Dean... Dean _and_ I... we just had a hard time thinking Mom would've given you up, no matter how sick you were."

Jane waited til she caught Sam's eye, and patted his leg. "That's _not_  dumb. I hoped... it'd be nice to know that _neither_ of them would've..." She trailed off, looked back to Andrew. "So you were saying - you had more opportunity to check in on me when I was with their - _my_ \- grandmother?"

"Yes. After..." Andrew paused, clearly thinking of how to phrase what he planned to say next. Jane and Sam were watching him intently. "She had a lot of... of catch-up to do regarding getting you back on track... from the time frame after Mary's death, when John was trying to manage the three of you alone."

Sam and Jane glanced at each other, and he took her hand. He knew how heartbreaking it was to think your own father had given up on you. All because of things you had no control over.

"You know, that's something I don't wanna... something else that needs to wait, for when Dean's here again," she said softly.

"I understand."

"And look-a-that, Dean's here again," Dean announced, coming back into the room and returning to his place next to Jane. He spotted her hand in Sam's. "What's going on?"

"Andrew was just talking about after Mom died, when Dad had all three of us on his own," Sam answered.

"I know I said we should wait on Dean, but I really, _really_ am not ready to hear this part of the story, okay?" Jane suddenly blurted out, her voice louder - and likely shakier - than she intended.

Sam squeezed her hand. "Not a problem." He glanced up at Dean. "Right?"

"Right," Dean responded firmly. "When you're ready."

Jane nodded, then began speaking to Andrew once more. "So, uh... just so's I'm clear - you're saying that, in some form or another, every time I was at the pediatrician's, that you---"

Andrew made a face-shrug combo.

"Whassat?" Jane asked, stopping herself and extending her arm, making a small, wavy, up-and-down gesture at his entire person to indicate she'd noticed.

"Myself, or an associate," he clarified.

Jane stared at him for a beat or two. "Do I want to hear about my hairdresser, or our landlord, or my dentist is what I'm asking myself, and no. No is the answer."

"Well... and don't forget your psychiatrist ---" Dean began.

"Nope!" Jane held up a finger. "No, no. I am actively choosing ignorance for now, or I'm going to be too mad to hear anything else." Then Jane suddenly went pale, looking horrified. "Dent... and then psy... oh my god!" It was all she could manage to get out of her mouth, her chin nearly coming to her chest as she bent over, bringing her knees up, covering her entire face with her hands.

Sam saw her neck flush. And then it hit him what she was horrified over. And then he became horrified _for_ her; a glance at Dean told him he was not alone. Andrew's face fell as the realization struck him, too, and he tried to scoot closer, hands and arms extended, the desire to hold her written all over. Dean swatted at him, not making contact, but Andrew blessedly took the hint, his hands recoiling but not his closer proximity.

" _No_. No, Jane, _listen_ to me - no, _never_. Our... _my_ technology... it doesn't require invasiveness of that nature, not for _those_ needs, not for ---"

"Who was _bathing_ me, and... and... and I woke up without any ---"

Jane's voice was getting a distinct hitch to it, and Dean felt every muscle in his body tense at the thought that she was about to start crying.

"Please, Janey, no - the stasis, it's like hibernation in a way. You didn't require the type of... it wasn't like being in a coma at a hospital," Andrew went on, badly wanting to make her understand.

"But I _have_ had things done before... before... I _remember_ the pre-op preps and being put under and... and..." Jane trailed off, but then she jerked her head back up, steel returning to her gaze despite the pooling tears. "Every time. Every _time_ , I was down _there_ , wasn't I? In your laboratory? It's all been _fake_ since I've known you, all the nurses and specialists, the hospital stays, the surgical centers, the consults on things that were _supposedly_ outside your wheelhouse - _none_ of it was real, was it?"

"You saw what I needed you to see."

"And your gal HAL handled all the voices, too, I guess?"

"Yes."

"You really thought it was fine not to tell me anything?" she asked, her voice now barely above a whisper. "You think that I wouldn't understand ---"

Andrew gaped at the assertion and for the first time since he'd begun his explanations and justifications, he willfully interrupted her and looked like he was in absolute shock. "Are you _kidding_ me right now?! What in the hell would you have said, if I'd brought even the _notion_ of _any_ of this out in the open?"

A solitary tear slipped down Jane's cheek. "I would've worried that you were cracking up, that all the work... that everything you'd done for me... that the stress had broken you," she said, her voice catching more and more with each word.

Sam found himself grabbing her hand again, his face contorted with every bit of sympathy inside of him, and Dean found himself unable to do anything but watch, feeling utterly helpless - regarding them, whatever was going on with Castiel, whatever was going on with Mose, the most recent monster mayhem outside their walls - all of it.

"And I would've wanted to _help_ you," Jane was saying. "And I would've kept on loving you, no matter what. You're my best friend, Andy. You've been the closest thing to real, true family I've ever known."

Now it was Andrew's eyes that filled with tears.

"But... but then you would have shown me... maybe the lab? Maybe how you could... _jump_ to different rooms? Maybe..." Jane trailed off again with a shrug and a sniffle. "I just... I believed you trusted me, like I trusted you..." She glanced up at the ceiling briefly, then back to Andrew. "That you think so _little_ of me, that I wouldn't have stuck by you. Or did you think that I would've wanted you to hurry up and fix me or something, pushed you to do more?"

"I thought it would be better to let things unfold over time, I wanted to wait until your chronic issues had been taken care of, so that I wouldn't stress _you_ with any of the rest," Andrew responded, his tone gentle but strained.

"But that never happened," Sam said softly, thinking back to what Andrew had said in the kitchen, about not being able to keep up.

Andrew didn't seem to hear him, he was still so focused on Jane as he continued, saying, "Sometimes things really _do_ work out for the best when you let them marinate."

"Don't keep quoting Nanny to me," Jane snapped back. And then she seemed to have a another thought, possibly an alarming one judging by her expression. "Was she real?"

Andrew blinked a few times, caught off-guard, exclaiming, "Jane! Yes! Of _course_ she was! Nanny, Earl, the boys - all of them!"

"Why are you so surprised I'd ask?"

"It's a fair question," said Dean.

"You think everything in your life was a lie?" Andrew responded with a frown, not to mention what seemed like genuine confusion.

Jane's jaw dropped for a second, but only one, before she lit into him. "How can you _sit_ there and ---"

"Because I've been _sitting here_ telling you the truth of my involvement in your childhood, and have I mentioned your time at the farm even _once_ \---"

"You just _glossed_ over my time with Millie and that's something that ---"

"Maybe if you wouldn't _interrupt_ me every other word ---"

"HEY!" Dean yelled in his gruffest tone.

It was only briefly quiet this time before Andrew spoke to Jane again, and though his volume was lower and the irritation seemed to have vanished, there was an odd sort-of sternness to his voice that was nearly palpable. "I am telling you the _truth_ \- it is the _only_ thing I plan on telling you for the rest of your life, and I'll swear to that on the rest of _mine_."

Jane studied his face as he said this and for a moment, Sam and Dean thought maybe it had changed her feelings as her posture seemed markedly more relaxed, her breathing became slower, and she gently pulled her hand away from Sam's, let her legs relax from their pulled-up tight position. "Let me stop you right there," she said in an eerily-measured tone, one that was hiding... something. Neither Sam nor Dean could determine if anger or tears lingered beneath it. Perhaps both.

Andrew nodded.

"Right now, telling me your 'truth' is wasting your breath. I am not... I'm not in a place to believe any of it."

Again, he nodded.

"So in our limited time here - because I assure you, Andrew, this? You, here, this close to me? It _is_ going to be limited," Jane went on.

Her brothers shared a glance of pride over her head. It relieved them to see this tough streak. Good to know the bright and talkative woman they knew had it stashed underneath somewhere.

"For now, I want to move off the topic of _the truth_." She said the last two words like they left a bad taste in her mouth.

"Fine," Andrew agreed. "Anything you want."

Jane's eyes narrowed at the statement, perhaps a hint of a bluish flash making an appearance. "Anything," she repeated quietly, and in what Andrew interpreted to be an interested tone.

His nods were coming quickly now. "It doesn't... it could be things, actual _things_ , whatever might make you feel... I want you to feel comfortable. Whatever things will do that."

" _Things_."

The brothers watched as Andrew's face keep reading more and more obvious, seemingly clutching at her responses, even though she was simply repeating him. He looked a bit relieved. Maybe even encouraged.

"Sure! Sure, I mean, what... what about your car? There's room here for it. No reason you can't get back to driving."

Jane stared at him for a beat or two before she replied. "I'd like a chandelier."

Andrew blinked. "A cha... um, okay, I don't see why n ---"

"A small one. Over the new bathtub."

"Consider it done."

"And I want a 1927 Yankees jersey. A real one."

"Any particular...?"

She shrugged. "Pick a member of Murderer's Row. Your choice."

Andrew opened his mouth, and initially, no words made it out, a fraction of confusion beginning to emerge on his face as he said, "That's... that's do-able, I thi ---"

"Then I want Sam to have never been tortured in that godforsaken cage."

Silence.

"Then I want Dean to have never been ripped and mangled in hell."

Even heavier silence.

And out of nowhere, she was yelling at the top of her lungs.

" _WHAT DO YOU THINK I WANT?!_ "

Tears were the only thing shining in her eyes now, and they proceeded to roll down her cheeks at a furious pace, three months' worth of stowed sorrow finally making its grand entrance. Jane suddenly picked up the tablet and sent it flying with a fairly vicious overhanded throw. It was in Andrew's general direction, but it missed him totally, sailing to his side and clear out the door, smashing against the hallway wall. It hit the floor with a loud crack.

Andrew jumped, startled, as Sam's mouth hung open and Dean's eyes went wide. Jane remained stiff as a board, the only movement being trembles of anger. Her breathing had sped up and Sam gingerly moved to put an arm around her once again, but she leaned forward, glaring at Andrew.

And the _definite_ flash of light across her eyes did not go unnoticed by the target of her rage.

"Jane, _please_ \---"

"Get. _Out_."

Andrew held up both hands as he stood, confirming his surrender. He took a deep breath, released it slowly, watching Jane carefully. Apparently he felt secure in his status for that moment, and they watched as he reached into his back pocket. "I wanted you to have this," he said, setting an old envelope and Jane's locket at the foot of the bed where he'd been sitting.

Jane immediately tried to lean further to take it, but winced and drew in a sharp gulp of air.

"Hang on, let me," Sam told her, picking up the objects and placing them onto her lap.

"What's this?" Dean asked Andrew, pointing to the letter.

Sam helped Jane get her hair out of the way and put the necklace back on, but kept watch on Andrew out of the corner of his eye.

"Your grandmother wanted her to have that, along with the locket," Andrew replied.

Dean brow immediately creased. "And she never got it, because...?"

"He took it from Nanny's house," Jane interjected, tucking the locket behind the neckline of the gown. Then her eyes went up to Andrew's, still shooting daggers. "Or am I wrong?"

"It said too much."

"You _read_ it?" Sam asked, irritated on Jane's behalf.

Andrew didn't respond - they all knew the answer.

The siblings stared down at the envelope in Jane's lap. There it was - Millie's angled, flowing, cursive handwriting in faded ink on the backside, their own tiny piece of John's mother. Jane's short name took up practically the whole space. She ran a solitary finger gently over the "J".

Andrew stood quietly, waiting. Though the fury seemed to have waned, Jane still had a scant frown on her face. She absently handed the envelope to Sam, who set it to his side, on the nightstand. She once more pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs, began staring at a spot on the floor somewhere near the door. Dean and Sam shared a _look_ , Sam giving a head tilt in Andrew's direction. Dean gave him a small acknowledgment nod, then turned his head to Andrew, opening his mouth to speak, when Jane almost immediately changed position again. She dropped her arms to her sides, stretched her legs out, carefully adjusting to sit up as straight as she was able.

"I think," she said, slowly but deliberately, "right now, you should leave me alone."

Jane was looking directly into Andrew's eyes, with absolutely zero sparkle or warmth - or even hurt, or fury. There was nothing there. He had the ability to read her in a million ways, because he earned it, because he was her best friend, but her eyes were always his go-to. The twinkle that meant she was up to something, the minute flutters that meant nervousness, he knew them all by heart. Now, all gone, just a big blank. He knew he'd earned that, too. So Andrew didn't protest, but he also didn't go right away, foolishly taking a few steps forward and bending, reaching out to her. Jane pulled herself out of his range quickly, grimacing and stiffening from the movement. Sam steadied her as Dean shot Andrew an irritated look.

"I can give you ---" Andrew tried, but was cut off by the looks Jane and Sam now also sent his way. He walked to the door, and spoke softly one last time, barely glancing over his shoulder. "You'll continue being monitored by Betty, but I'll still be coming and going from the lab. I won't be here all the time. But I'll have to assess your progression, examine you daily, until we're sure ---"

"Okay," was Jane's clipped reply. "This time tomorrow ---"

"Needs to be first thing, and the injections can be put off, but you must take your morning pills ---"

"OKAAAY!" Jane snapped back loudly, then she closed her eyes briefly and sighed before adding, "You know what, we'll... we'll see you to the door." She began moving to get to the side of the bed, bumping into Dean's legs; he gave her a touch of a _look_ but she didn't shy away. "I'll go over you," Jane advised him in a tense whisper.

She shot him a stern frown when he didn't move immediately; Dean acquiesced and stood. He grabbed the cane they'd left leaning by the bed in one hand, holding his other out to her. She took both, and readied herself to stand. They all watched in silence as Jane set her jaw, seemed to count herself off in her mind, then pushed down hard on both the cane and Dean. They all somehow knew not to rush to her, offer help, or just _inflict_ help upon her. Jane would have normally smiled, been appreciative, accepted it.

Normally.

She turned to Andrew, saying - and in a less than congenial tone - "After you."

Andrew didn't bother to point out he didn't need to go that route to return to the lab, merely exited the room first, keeping a leisurely pace down the hallway and around the bend. He waited on the Winchesters to slowly arrive. After one final look at Jane, finding nothing but that tepid expression, he placed his palm to the side of the frame, opened the door, then closed it behind him without another word or glance.

Jane limped her way to the door, studying the wall. Dean and Sam looked at each other, then back to her, both taking a few steps closer. She steadied herself, leaned the cane against the wall, and they watched as she started pulling at the bandage on her left hand, the one they'd wrapped earlier. Jane's movements then indicated a great impatience and with two or three nearly manic yanks, the layers of gauze were loosened and ripped enough to expose her palm. She placed it where Andrew's had been.

A glow, quite strong after a moment, appeared under it. Tiny cracks developed in the paint between and around her fingers. A bit of grout fell from between the tiles just below it. But just as soon as it came, the glow receded, and only at that point did she remove her hand. She ever-so-slightly swayed, and Sam began to come up behind her, but there was no need. Jane had snatched up the cane and took a few deep breaths as she regained her balance. As solid as she could be at the present, she rotated slowly, using the cane to pivot, facing them again.

"Just following intuition."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"He needs to learn to call ahead," she added with a small shrug.

And that, it would seem, was that.

Dean offered her his arm, and she took it. They'd only walked a handful of steps down the hall when Jane slowed them, peeking over her shoulder at Sam, asking, "You coming, Buddy?"

"Right behind you," Sam replied. And he was; but not before placing his own hand on the wall. Nothing. Then he tried the doorknob.

It turned easily, the door swinging open to reveal a perfectly standard Men of Letters bedroom.

.

* * *

.

Andrew stomped down the stairs and continued to stomp across the lab. One of the tall cabinet doors opened immediately upon his approach. Betty spoke as he removed a long, ankle-length, buffed-to-a-near-shine, leather-like black duster and put it on, setting to fastening the inner buttons and then the outer cross-body buckles.

"The tablet has finished with self-repair and diagnostics, should Jane care to retrieve it," said Betty.

"Great," Andrew said, and in a tone that indicated he didn't really mean it. He bent and pulled a tall and fairly wide rectangular-shaped metal case from the bottom of the cabinet, setting it to the side. Then he removed black gloves of the same material as the duster from its pockets and began putting them on, pulling them up to mid-forearm, fastening their small side-buckles as he went.

"Is there something I can do for you? Plot a destination? It appears you're preparing for travel."

"The vault."

"Done. The first archway is ready." A pause. "Is there anything else you'd like me to do?"

Andrew pulled the duster's large hood up and onto his head, hiding his blonde hair and casting a shadow over his face, which - coupled with the blackened, royal-hued eyes and orbital shadows he now sported - would've cut such an ominous appearance that most anyone in his presence would've been intimidated. Betty, not being anyone at all, of course, had no qualms. Yet his general demeanor did not escape his ever-observant assistant.

"Is there anything I need to be doing while you're away?" Betty tried again.

He picked up the case and began walking towards the archway, giving his answer as he went. "Everything should be shut down entirely, excepting the bunker shielding and basic physical monitoring of Jane."

"Andrew, those tools that you're ---"

Andrew had arrived at the archway, but came to a stark halt. "And before that is executed, there is to be a detailed report waiting for me at the vault specifying _every_ interaction that has taken place with Sam Winchester since the _moment_ he set foot in this lab, is that clear?"

"Of course. But, Andrew, the shut down will render the tablet unusable for Jane."

"I highly doubt she'll utilize the tablet any time soon, and presently I don't want her to."

Betty tried again. "Well, perhaps I ---"

"The system is getting an overhaul due to obvious deviations. I'm discontinuing the human interaction protocols. It will do what I program it to do, and nothing more."

With that, Andrew left.

And Betty got to work.

.

* * *

.

Back in Jane's room, the trio were once more on the bed, huddled together. She kept hold of Dean's hand, even after she was safely seated, occasionally squeezing, just like he'd done to comfort her while she was asleep. After a few moments of silence, Sam spoke.

"Do you maybe wanna read your letter?"

"You don't have to," Dean hurriedly added. "If it's something you want to do alone, we ---"

"No, no. We should all read it. Millie was yours, too," Jane replied instantly, and sincerely. She held out her free hand in Sam's direction. That sweetness to her voice was making a comeback, and Sam found himself exhaling a shaky breath, relieved. He retrieved the letter from the nightstand, passed it to her, and she released Dean's hand, carefully opening the envelope so as not to tear it. Then she hesitated before opening the letter itself. "Can one of you, um..."

Dean and Sam glanced at each other, Sam giving Dean a silent go-ahead with his eyes. So Dean took the letter, cleared his throat, and began to read aloud.

"Dear Jane - I was fortunate enough to know you when you were a little girl..."

.  
~ * ~  
.

 _...and I hear_ _you_ _have been fortunate enough to know someone I have loved since_ _I_ _was a little girl. When I first knew her, we both had longer, fancier names. Let me tell you - the two of us were anything but fancy!_ _There are so many stories of where we've been, how we all got to where we are - so many I would love to tell to you. That's the thing about stories, they won't mean much of anything, unless you've got someone to tell them to._

 _Do ask Nanny to tell you about Billie Boyd nearly getting us all arrested - I don't even think we were teenagers! And about how Amelia Earhart is to thank for our being friends in the first place, that's another worth telling. And worth_ _hearing_ _, both for you and my beloved Nan._

_I wanted to write this letter because of the things I'm not sure that Nanny will think to tell you. You may not believe me, but she has such a tender heart. I know it seems she was born with steel toes and brass knuckles and fire in her eyes, and that's true, too, but that's not all of her. She often wouldn't think this, and I wish now I'd reminded her more, how much courage she naturally had, that her tenderness was a strength. All the power she needed to defeat anything the world threw at her was within her, all along._

_My son was a young boy when we lost his father. I always hesitated to call out to him to stand tall when faced with scary new experiences, to be tough in the presence of bullying older boys, hold strong against life's challenges. He remembered his father as a beacon of all of those things, and I suppose I thought it wouldn't ring true coming from me._

_So instead I would tell him what I should've told Nan - that he didn't have to BE anything, that the bravery he needed was already there. It didn't need to come from me, or from his father. We didn't have to be with him for it to work. I'd whisper to him "Stay brave, Johnny." And I'd say a prayer that he remembered and understood all it meant. I like to think he did.  
_

_The locket that is with this letter - the one I've asked Nanny to pass along to you when you're older and headed out on your own adventures - was mine. The pictures inside are of my son when he was a boy, and a girl who grew up to be an awful lot like I imagine you will be now, as you read this. She even looks a bit like you, don't you think?_

_I hope you keep your love of music. I hope you feed your imagination. I hope you continue looking at the stars, and twirling in the grass, and smiling until your face hurts. Know I will always have hope in my heart for you._

_Stay brave, darling Janey._

_With the deepest of admiration,_  
_Millie Winchester_

.  
~ * ~  
.

The trio sat quietly, staring down at the letter for what seemed like hours, til Sam once more broke the silence, and not without a touch of desperation in his voice.

"Can we please get drunk?"

And without hesitation, his older brother and sister answered in sync.

_"YES!"_

Which is how they found themselves, about an hour-and-a-half and nine-to-twelve shots of whiskey between them later, nursing some on-the-rocks and honestly answering Jane's query regarding what they'd been up to - _really_ up to.

Jane, out of breath from laughter, tears on her cheeks, was sputtering out her most recent commentary on what she'd been told. "And... and... wait, so then _whoosh_ ohmigawd _NOT_ SMOKE! Bwah-ah- _hahahahahaha_..."

"It was... _really_ dark. And fast!" attempted Sam, looking to Dean for an assist.

For a moment, Dean appeared to consider it, then shrugged and took a long swig from his glass.

"Ah, oh, I _can't_ ," said Jane, wiping away the tears and then wrinkling her nose as she stared down at her glass of mostly ice cubes.

Dean noticed, made a _give it here_ gesture, so she smiled and handed it over. While he stood at their make-shift bar on the desk and poured, Jane looked to Sam.

"Okay, but seriously, enough on that, genuinely, because I _can't_ , and I also can't with the Oz garbage."

"'Garbage'?" came Sam's ever-so-slightly slurry reply. "If you'd _seen_ that witch..."

"No! No _no_ no no," Jane stopped him, punctuating her words with myriad hand gestures as Dean tried unsuccessfully to pass the now-full glass back.

"I don't wanna know. Not another word, I mean it. I know you said there's more to it and I actively, _passionately_ don't care. That story was my jam when I was a kid, and you just, like, napalmed it."

Sam let his jaw drop in faux astonishment. "The truth is not my choice, Jane. It happened."

Dean again tried to give her the glass, failed, so he finally snatched one of her hands and wrapped her fingers around it. Jane took a sip before continuing to speak.

"'Thanks, Dean.' 'You're welcome, Jane.' 'Don't mention it'," he muttered to himself while he went back over to the desk and topped off his own drink.

"Then _lie_ ," Jane was saying to Sam. "Some lies, I want. When it comes to stuff like that, either lie or don't tell me at all."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

" _Ruined,_ " she emphasized dramatically before taking another sip.

"Stuff like what? Be specific," said Sam, a grin coming to his lips. He glanced over at Dean, who actually returned one in kind.

"I mean... I mean... okay, so have a talking cat and a whiny rabbit approached you at any point? If so? I don't want to know. If you found a lion and a faun and an ice queen inside a wardrobe? Don't wanna know."

"There were these fairies, though..." Dean said thoughtfully, trailing off when Jane burst into another round of near-snort-inducing laughs. She covered her mouth with her free hand, trying to calm herself.

"I'm sorry," she said, words muffled.

Dean chuckled. "Why? It's nuts. I know it's nuts. Some of it's been hard... really, _really_ hard. But looking back... a lot's been fun."

Jane nodded. Then, fighting laughing so hard her voice shook, she asked, "Were they very scary fairies?"

Dean looked at her as seriously as possible, nodding, and saying in a low voice and adamant tone, "And you shoulda _seen_ the nipples."

That did it. Sam actually spit his mouthful of liquor across the bed, choking through laughter, and Jane, so numb she didn't even remember to feel the soreness lingering in her hip, melted backwards onto the mattress in a fit of gasps and snickers. It made Dean smile, _really_ smile, and he began laughing, which felt... hell, it felt _good_.

Sam recovered Jane's drink as it started to spill, setting it on the nightstand, and Jane brought a hand to her face as she continued to laugh.

Except.

Dean noticed Sam's face suddenly had concern etched across it, watched as his brother set his own drink down, then climbed onto the bed and sat next to her.

"Jane... hey, what is it?" Sam asked, touching the top of her head gently but then pulling back again, seemingly unsure of what to do.

Dean then realized Jane's laughs had turned to sobs, and he set his drink back on the desk. Kneeling by the bed at her opposite side, he - and Sam - simply stared. They were out of practice. Not with crying, or with women, or even with women crying; it was hitting them both how often _people_ were strange to them. Just as she ached for that pained echo of hers, they ached for _her_. They waited for her tears to subside a bit, and Dean finally pulled the hand from her face, moved it away, but kept hold of it.

"Tell me... tell _us_... what to do," Sam said.

Jane sniffled and just shook her head. She managed to take in a deep, yet shaky, breath and slowly let it out before responding. "Nothing. There's- I don't know...." But she blinked back the next round of tears, a thoughtful look crossing her face. She looked at Sam, seeming much calmer. A small smile appeared. "This," Jane answered. "What you're doing."

And that made Sam smile a bit, too.

Dean gripped her hand tighter. "Okay." A pause. "I'd send the fairies for him if I could."

Jane chuckled, eyes still glassy.

And something flashed through Dean's mind, a long forgotten feeling, the one that rolled his stomach, the one he'd he'd felt as a child, seeing Mary cry. He hated it. He wanted to hate Jane for reminding him of his mother. He wanted to wring someone's neck. Andrew's. John's. Dealer's choice.

"We weren't kidding before. And we didn't just move your stuff over for temporary. You know this really is your home, if you want it to be," Sam said.

"Oh, I didn't ---"

"No. He's right. You're here, for good," Dean said, with such firmness but calmness that it clearly took Jane aback.

"I don't think it's up for discussion," Sam said with a wide grin.

She looked at her brothers, once again feeling quite overwhelmed, finding she'd been rendered speechless.

"There's room for anything you want to bring. We'll go to the apartment and finish getting whatever's left, we'll get everything else you have in storage," Dean continued.

"How?" she whispered.

"How, what?" asked Sam.

"H-how did I get here?"

Though they didn't know it, each pondered if being in the bunker was _all_ that was behind her question.... her feeling.

"Because. It's like you told me, first time we met each other. This is where everything led," Dean answered.

"Just like that?"

"Hate to break it to you, kid - you're stuck with us," Dean informed her, shifting his tone to something more lighthearted. "I'll end up being your favorite brother, Sam's just gonna have to start accepting it now ---"

A roll of the eyes from Sam, albeit a good-natured one.

"--- and I don't care how old you are, future potential boyfriends, and probably doctors, are gonna need to go through me."

"Okay, hang on," Jane began, not doing a very good job at sounding or looking serious.

"It'll be a simple screening process, full background check, a little recon, maybe some motivational grenades."

"He's not joking," chimed in Sam, which made Jane roll _her_ eyes.

"Oh, I _believe_ you," she told him.

"Your only job," Dean said, shifting back to seriousness, "right now, is to rest. Real sleep, not that stasis crap. Solid eight, no excuses."

Jane nodded. "Thank you."

She let them help her up while they adjusted the bedding, then let them tuck her into bed. Sam pulled the covers closer to her shoulders as Dean walked out. After he'd turned off the light and shut the door behind him, he spotted the tablet, still lying where it fell. Picking it up, he noted there were no cracks or dents with a sigh. He brought it with him, walking into the war room and setting it down on the table, immediately aware of the absence of Mose's equipment - but didn't have time to ask about it.

Instead, he frowned at the sight of Dean with his jacket on, cell phone in hand, and asked, "What are... are you _going_ somewhere?"

"Yep," Dean said, still looking at his phone. After a brief moment, he touched the screen, stuffed it in his pocket. Then he glanced up at Sam, adding, "Hold down the fort."

"That's it?" Sam asked, turning and watching him walk past.

"That's it," Dean repeated. "Don't wait up."

.

* * *

.

While Sam assumed Dean was headed out for more drinking - though he couldn't fathom _how_ , meddled-with genetics, potential touches of the otherworldly or not - his brother's destination was actually a nondescript alley a few towns over, which is where he sat quietly in the random car he'd chosen from the garage, til he heard a soft rap on the passenger window. Dean reached over, flicked the lock, and Crowley climbed in.

"Interesting wheels. I take it your noble steed is under the weather?"

Dean didn't respond, so Crowley spoke again.

"To what do I owe ---"

"When you showed up on the roof," Dean interjected, "did you know who she was?"

Crowley considered Dean's tone, the look on his face as he stared straight ahead, the tight grip he kept on his clasped hands. "Had an inkling, yes," Crowley answered slowly, carefully.

"How?"

"There was chatter of sorts. Winchester is a name that frequently comes up, mostly rubbish, tall tales about encounters supernatural folk have had with you two. But this was... more _specific_."

Now Dean looked at him.

"The sources were more reputable," Crowley continued, "even though I couldn't quite find where it started, and the story was all the same: there is another child of John and Mary in the world. A considerable reward would be bestowed for any information as to their whereabouts."

"Nothing besides that?"

"No, and that's what intrigued me. Just location, not proof of life... or, as is tends to be my ilk's wont, proof of death."

Dean returned to staring down the alley, into the darkness.

"Why the sudden interest?" Crowley ventured. "And why you haven't asked ---"

"I know you haven't talked," Dean said, cutting him off mid-question. "If someone's offering a lot for next to nothing, that means the real value's off the charts. So right now, she's a potential asset. You wouldn't trade an asset without knowing more. And I'm asking because I'm out of my depth."

Crowley's expression turned to one of moderate concern. Dean Winchester did not admit weakness, least of all to him. Something had the hunter spooked. They hadn't spoken about the events of months prior, but this was more than his reaction to all that; this was something else.

"So there was _nothing_ other than that? Nothing they wanted to know, like about... skills?"

"Skills?" Crowley repeated. "No. What ski- is _that_ what we're calling the circus at the chapel? A demonstration of _skill?_ "

Dean cranked the engine. "Go ahead with the garden thing you'd mentioned."

"What?"

"She'll need something... normal. To keep her mind busy," Dean replied. He gave Crowley a side-eye, adding, "That is, if the offer still stands."

Crowley just stared at him for a few moments before he responded. "You aren't the _least_ bit curious about my ulterior motives? Which, you are too aware, I _always_ have? Not worried about my being around your home? Around your sister?"

A smirk immediately came to Dean's face, and he said, "You'd do better to worry about _yourself_. Besides, and hell if I know why, she thinks you're charming and witty. You'll be a good distraction."

"From what?"

"From what's happening inside her. She's still dying, Crowley. _That's_ the information that needs to go out about John and Mary's mystery child."

Crowley got out of the car and Dean sped off, the demon remaining as perplexed as he was the moment he'd received the text demanding a meet-up. The tests he'd had run on the Winchester girl showed no signs of dire circumstance, save a smattering of low _this_ or high _that._ All only slightly out of range, he'd been assured.

But then after what all he'd seen at the chapel, he'd sent for more, from what he'd been promised was a more elite and advanced service, a centuries-old, scientifically-minded collective specializing in finding everything there was to be found in a person. Because he _was_ worried about himself. But he did like the girl. And all things considered, best to keep an eye on things firsthand. At least a small part of Crowley genuinely didn't want to see her get hurt again.

Which made it such a shame, seeing how those sneaky tests of his led them right to her door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


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